Song Of Healing
by Undetectable Person
Summary: COMPLETE Two girls follow Race back to the lodging house after a poker game. But Flick and Secret are hiding something dark...and to discover the truth, the newsies will have to penetrate Secret's secretive nature, or challenge Flick's volatile temper.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: You all know the drill. Flick, Secret, Song, Shadow, Odds, Muscles, Crow, Scamp, Mulberry, Broom, Mott, Bat, Scrap, and Mr. Trotwood (AKA Trout) belong to me. Please don't use them without my permission. All the other characters in this story belong to Disney. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made. 

Hello by Evanescence

Playground, school bell rings

Again

Rainclouds come to play

Again

Has no one told you she's not breathing?

Hello, I'm your mind

Giving you someone to talk to

Hello

If I smile and don't believe

Soon I know I'll wake from this dream

Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken

Hello, I'm the lie

Living for you so you can hide

Don't cry

Suddenly I know I'm not sleeping

Hello, I'm still here

All that's left of yesterday.

Song of Healing

by Midnight Flare, AKA Flare

**August 7, 1899, 11:00 P.M.**

Racetrack Higgins was on a roll. For several hours now he'd been sitting in a casino in Harlem, crushing every poker opponent who dared to challenge him. Despite his friends' frequent attempts to break him of this habit, because of the dangers involved in gambling, particularly with people who were bigger and older than you were and often drunk, Race refused to abandon his hobby. Though he usually contented himself with poker games against fellow newsies, once in a while he needed a night of excitement and big winnings. Between this money and the profits from the extra papers he'd sold today, he was really looking forward to the races next time he managed to get to the tracks. During his fifteen-year lifetime, about six horses Racetrack bet on had won, but this never seemed to discourage him in the least.

From a dark corner, Flick watched the various poker games in silence. Her attention was mainly focused on a short, baby-faced Italian boy with black hair and brown eyes, wearing a white shirt, brown pants, and red-and-black checkered vest. A black cabbie hat was perched on his head, pushed back so that just the right amount of hair was sticking out the front. A cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth, smoke spiraling lazily from its tip. He appeared to be about twelve, but Flick had a feeling he was older than he looked. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he was one of the best poker players she had ever seen in her life.

            "Flick?"

                        Flick turned questioningly toward the soft voice of her companion, who sat in the chair across from hers at the small corner table. Secret flinched slightly under her friend's gaze, questions bombarding her mind.

            _What are we doin' heah? How is sittin' heah watchin' pokah games all night gonna do you or me or anyone else any good?_ Biting her lip, Secret sighed. "Neveh mind," she muttered, folding her arms on the table and resting her head on them. It wasn't long before she had dozed off.

            Wordlessly, Flick turned back to the game. The boy she'd been watching had just raised the stakes twenty-five cents. His opponent, a burly, greasy-haired man in his early twenties, arched his eyebrows as the boy pushed a quarter into the middle of the table. "I'll see ya," the man cackled, tossing in a quarter to match the bet. He clearly thought the younger gambler was bluffing. Flick knew better. A moment later, the black-haired boy was grinning as he displayed an Ace of Diamonds...and an Ace of Hearts...and an Ace of Clubs. "T'ree of a kind." Cursing, the man slammed his fist onto the table so loudly that several other people glanced up from their games. The boy didn't seem phased by this behavior. Cocking one eyebrow, he cheerfully swept his winnings off the table and dumped them into his pockets. He then stared his fuming, crimson-faced opponent straight in the eye until the man swore a few more times, lurched to his feet, and staggered out of the casino.

            _Da kid's got guts, _Flick thought approvingly. She found she could appreciate that even at a time like this.

            Yawning, the Italian boy glanced around the casino, obviously hoping for one more game, to finish off the night with another handful of coins jingling in his pockets. "Anyone else wanna have a go?"

            It looked as if his wish wasn't going to be granted. Most of the other customers seemed absorbed in drinks, conversation, and of course, their own games of poker and blackjack. But a moment later, Secret's head jerked up in alarm; Flick had risen to her feet, walked briskly over to the victor's table, sat down across from him, and begun to deal.

Race was taken aback.

            For one thing, after all his victories tonight, he really hadn't been expecting anyone else to take up his challenge. For another thing, he was used to his opponents saying something when they approached him, rather than just sitting down and launching right into the game. For a third thing, Racetrack had never encountered a girl in a casino before.

            And for a fourth thing, this was not just any girl. This was a girl dressed in a black shirt and pants, navy-blue vest and suspenders, and a jaunty brown cabbie hat.

            When Race stared too long, not knowing whether to be shocked or scandalized or merely fascinated, the girl shoved his cards at him impatiently. Wide-eyed, struggling to regain his composure, he automatically picked them up and examined his hand.

            The betting began. The girl called, raised, and announced how many cards she wanted to exchange in a low, almost frightening monotone. Her New York accent strongly pervaded every word. As he gradually relaxed into the familiar rhythm of his favorite game, Race began to take note of the girl's appearance beyond her clothes. She was of average height, several inches taller than he was, and probably about his age. She had short hair, shorter than any girl's he'd ever seen, so that it barely reached her chin. It was also flaming red, so vivid that he couldn't believe he'd missed it at first; a blazingly bright shade of coppery red-orange about as subtle as the sun. The brief glimpse he got of her eyes before the game started revealed them to be a dark, stormy blue; after that she kept them glued to her cards, not raising them once. She was slightly pale, and her hands were tough and calloused. Race had never been obsessed with girls like his friend Mush, except for a hopeless crush on Medda Larkson the vaudeville star. But he figured even Mush wouldn't go for this girl. She wasn't pretty...no, definitely not. Not ugly, but a far cry from pretty. She was too pale, too skinny, completely flat-chested, her hair was too short, and she was dressed like a boy. It was even more than these things that denied her any beauty, though, Race observed. It was her personality. It seemed to shine through her whole appearance. She was..._tough, _Race decided. Closed-up, hiding all feeling. Strong, fiery...untouchable. Nothing at all like the soft, shy, _feminine_ girls Race was used to.

            Hand after hand passed in silence, money shifting between the two of them. They seemed about evenly matched in the game. As he discarded a Ten of Diamonds and took an Ace of Spades, Race glanced again at the girl's hat. It was exactly the same style as his, and it was normally a good indicator of the wearer's occupation.

            "Yer a newsie?" he ventured, taking a puff on his cigar and adding two pennies to the pile.

                        The girl seemed to stiffen for a moment, but her posture returned to normal so quickly that he wasn't sure whether he might have imagined it. "Call," she murmured in the same flat voice, tossing two pennies down on the table, "an' raise ya two," she continued, adding two more. "Yeah, sorta."

            _Sorta? _Race nodded thoughtfully. He knew there were female newsies in some parts of the city, though none lived or sold in his own borough.

            "Wheah d'ya sell?" he asked casually, seeing her bet and raising three cents.

                        This time there was a pause long enough to show that the girl was not at all comfortable with the question.

            "Wheah da _you sell?" she demanded, tossing down a nickel that nearly caused Racetrack to drop his expertly cultivated poker face and wince._

            "Manhattan," he replied, thinking, _How'm I s'posta catch any tells if she always keeps 'er eyes down like dat?  _"Lowa East Side. Call, an' raise ya two."

            "Raise ya ten. What's da neighbahood like?"

                        "R-raise ya...one. Not bad. Sometimes it's kinda rough, what wit da Delanceys lookin' fer trouble an' all."

            His opponent snorted softly. Apparently she didn't find mention of the Delanceys particularly intimidating. "Raise ya five. How's da sellin' dere?"

            _Dis goil is gonna give me a noivous breakdown. I ain't neveh seen anyone play pokah like dis befoah! Eidda she's a masta at bluffin' or I'se in big trouble..._

"Great. We's got Bottle Alley, da Harba', Central Park...all da best spots. Call." He glanced down at the table and was startled to realize that he was out of money. Peering across the table, he saw that his opponent was in the same position. Every cent involved had gone into the pot. He hesitated. "Moment o' truth."

            Holding his breath, Race swept his cards out in a row in front of him: straight, in Spades.

                        For the first time since the game began, the redheaded newsgirl raised her eyes. They were the pale blue of a summer sky, and she tossed her cards down face-up: a royal flush.

            "I'se Flick," the girl announced as Race, shocked and devestated, watched her scoop up every cent on the table and dump it into her pockets.

            "Racetrack Higgins," he managed, before her words registered, then wondered aloud, "Wheah d'ya get a name like Flick?"

                        Flick ignored the question. "Secret!" she called. Like magic, a second girl appeared from a cobweb-laced corner, rubbing her eyes as if she'd just been awakened from a nap. A bit shorter than Flick, she had shoulder-length, silky black hair and rather eerie eyes: pale, sparkling ice-blue, and so bright they were almost phosphorescent. These eyes were fringed in very long, very black lashes, and she wore a ragged light blue dress and grey cabbie hat. A large, patched and shabby old pack was slung over her shoulder.

            "Secret," Flick announced, "we's gonna be Manhattan newsies."

"Rememba, I had absolutely nuttin' ta do wit dis," Racetrack glumly reminded his two shadows as they approached a shabby-looking building. "It ain't my fault da two o' youse decided ta follow me. Why don't ya jist go back ta Harlem? Nice place, Harlem. Good lodgin' house, or so Blink says. Dere ya go, read da sign," he urged hopefully, motioning toward the sign over the door of the building that read "Newsboys Lodging House".

            Flick glanced dismissively at it. "Yeah, it said da same t'ing on da door o' our last lodgin' house."

            It also said the same thing on the door of the Brooklyn lodging house, which housed seven newsgirls, but Race found it unnecessary to mention this. "An' ya ain't gonna tell me wheah dat was," he muttered in exasperation, pulling the door open and entering the building. He'd been questioning Flick and Secret all the way from Harlem, trying to figure out who they were, where they were from, and why they were currently homeless newsies. He'd had absolutely no luck. Flick had a curt, biting, useless response for everything; her dark-haired companion remained completely silent.

            Half-hoping they would back down at the last moment, Race grimaced in resignation when Flick and Secret followed him into the tiny front hall. He wasn't surprised to find that Kloppman, the old man who ran the lodging house, had already gone to bed. He wouldn't be able to throw the girls out; that would be left to Cowboy.

            "I'll bet dere was odda goils at yer old lodgin' house, dough," he guessed as he turned to a small table, picked up a pen, and signed the large and rather dusty Newsies Registration Book.

            The silence that followed was so filled with tension that Race, as he finished signing his name, turned toward the two newsgirls. Secret had turned away. Flick's eyes were the color of sapphires, and from her expression, he could only guess that she was about to take a swing at him. Hurriedly, he stepped back from the table, tossing the pen at Flick, and headed up a few broad stairs and through the door that led into the bunkroom, shutting it behind him.

            "Hey, Race, yer back late--" Jack Kelly began, sitting up in his top bunk.

                        "I din't do it," Racetrack blurted out, dashed into the room, and dove into his bunk under his friend Kid Blink, just as the door opened again and Flick and Secret entered the bunkroom.

First came a yell from Jack at the sight of two strange shapes coming through the door. Chaos swiftly followed. Everything seemed to happen at once. Jack called, "Who's dere?" and vaulted down from his bunk, fumbling on his bedside table for a candle and match. Slider screamed, Blink sat bolt upright and looked around wildly, Snoddy cursed, Dutchy fumbled for his glasses, Odds fell out of his bunk, Mush sat up and demanded to know what was going on, and Skittery yelled for everyone to shut up and go back to sleep.

            Finally, Jack located the two objects he was seeking, struck the match, and lit the candle. Blowing out the match and tossing it aside, he raised the candle and strode forward to illuminate the utterly calm faces of two teenage girls.

            Twenty-nine grumpy, sleepy faces stared bug-eyed and slack-jawed at the pair framed in the doorway by the flickering, ghostly light of Jack's candle. Race hid his face in his pillow and wished it would swallow him.

            _"What da..." _Jack's exclamantion trailed off into incoherent stutters.

                        "Heya," the redhead greeted him cheerfully. "I'se Flick an' dis's Secret. We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while. Ya din't hafta wake ev'ryone up ta let 'em know, dough."

Flick waited while the boy holding the candle stuttered, apparently at a loss for words. She might have smirked, if it hadn't been a time like this. Now she gazed defiantly at the huge swarm of half-dressed boys that crowded behind Jack to goggle at Secret and her. The confused din of half-asleep questions was deafening, but Flick knew that it was the boy with the candle who mattered; he must be the leader. She looked him over. He was tall, about seventeen, and had dark blonde hair, mussed from sleep. Glancing up at the bunk he'd jumped down from, she saw a black cowboy hat sitting on the foot of the bunk, confirming her suspicions. So this was the famous and infamous Jack Kelly, leader of the Newsies Strike of last month. She had participated, of course, she and Secret, and they had heard him make his speech with David Jacobs and Spot Conlon on the stage of Irving Hall at the ill-fated rally, but there had been herds of tall newsboys standing in front of them, and they hadn't had much of a view. A West Side newsgirl called Brook, who had maneuvered her way to the front of the crowd, had informed the few other girls present that Jack was handsome. Seeing him up close now, Flick disagreed.__

"Yer, uh...yer _goils." _ finally popped out of Jack's mouth.

                        "When last I checked," Secret replied faintly. Snickers rose from the crowd of newsboys. Flick touched her friend's hand lightly and nodded. Jack quickly pulled himself together. Glaring, he leaned toward them and crossed his arms.

            "Okay, who are ya, wheah ya from, an what're ya doin' heah?"

                        "I told ya our names," Flick replied patiently. "Wheah we's from ain't important. An' I seem ta also rememba tellin' ya why we's heah. We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while."

            That did it. The boys were over their shock by now, and at this repetition of Flick's statement, an explosion of laughter erupted. Racetrack, the only newsie still in his bunk, winced and peered up from his pillow to watch the action.

            Struggling to stop laughing, and finally succeeding after a fit of half-laughing coughs, Jack's face assumed an amused and dubious expression which was known to be highly irritating. "Right. A couple goils show up at a Newsboys Lodgin' House in da middle o' da night, one o' dem _dressed as a boy_, an' tell da thoity boys who live dere dat deyre gonna join da fam'ly."

            "Yeah," Flick replied softly. "Dat's e'zactly what we's gonna do."

                        The laughter died slowly. Flick's voice had the strength of steel and the temperature of lava. Her eyes had darkened to a rich and startling ocean blue. That voice and those eyes were not to be laughed at. Suddenly, this bizarre cross-dressing redheaded girl did not seem remotely pathetic or ridiculous. She seemed dangerous.

            "An' I ain't _dressed as a boy," she added as an afterthought. "I'se dressed as a newsie."_

                        Jack ignored this last statement. Despite the original humor of the situation, he found he was forced to realize that the girls were actually serious.

            _I can't believe dis. Dis has gotta be a dream or sometin', _he thought wildly. But those glaring eyes were no dream. And Jack was quickly finding his amusement replaced by anger.

            "'Scuse me," he said loudly, taking a step closer to Flick and Secret, "but ya can't jist show up like dis at some ungodly hour o' da night. If ya need help or sometin', dat's one t'ing, but if ya jist took a notion dat ya wanna become newsies, try some odda place. Ya ain't livin' in a lodgin' house wit thoity boys."

            Many sighs of disappointment swept through the crowd, Mush and Bumlets chief among them, but Jack silenced them with a glare and turned back to the intruders. "So, if yer lost or jist need a place ta stay fer da night, we'll be 'appy ta oblige ya. Ya ain't becomin' Manhattan newsies, dough. Try Brooklyn. Dey got goils dere."

            "We ain't lost, we don't need help an' we don't take charity," Flick replied, her voice fiery and sharp as a blade. "An' hang Brooklyn," she added more softly and thoughtfully, then continued angrily, "we got money enough ta pay fer our stay heah, an' we's both been sellin' papes fer yeahs. If ya got da money an' ya know da trade, ya can stay in any lodgin' house ya please. Dere ain't no law 'gainst goils sellin' papes 'round heah."

            "Ya _wanna sleep in a room wit thoity boys?" came Kid Blink's disbelieving voice. "Not dat we ain't all gentlemen an' ev'rytin'," he added hastily, to a snort from Jack, "but I wouldn't t'ink a couple goils would wanna chance sometin' like dat."_

            Flick turned her gaze on him. "Secret an' me ain't got nuttin' ta worry 'bout. If any o' youse so much as touched eidda o' us, we'd soak ya till ya wished ya was dead."

            Blink, taken aback, pondered this answer. Race, for one, believed it. Jack was evidently not impressed.

            "Listen, youse two are really weahin' out my patience. I don't hit goils or nuttin', so jist get outta heah, 'kay?"

            Flick gazed up at him. You could have heard a pin drop. The newsboys were silent, tense, waiting. "Ya don't hit goils, huh? Well, let me suggest ya change yer policy dis once. Take a swing. I'd be absolutely thrilled ta see ya try."

Race sat up, leaning forward on the edge of his bed, watching intently the trio in the pool of candlelight. Secret was a dark, silent shadow, still in the doorway, not receiving much attention, as she had barely said a word during the whole encounter. The two figures everyone's eyes were upon were Flick, the candlelight causing her crown of hair to glow like a flame on top of her head, fists clenched and slightly raised, azure fire blazing in her eyes; and Jack, staring down at her, breathing heavily, also with fists clenched, eyes wide and full of amazement, anger, and confusion. Racetrack was worried, but for whose sake he honestly couldn't say. The tension in the room was so thick it could be sliced with a knife. The newsies were hardly daring to breathe. Sure, there had been fights in the lodging house before, but Jack was usually the one to break them up, not start them. And obviously, there had never been a showdown between their leader and a spunky girl in boy's clothes. Finally, Jack spoke.

            "I'se givin' ya one last chance," he said between gritted teeth. "Get outta heah now an' no one hasta get hoit."

            "Back down now," replied Flick (the newsies winced collectively, expecting her to start breathing fire at any moment), "an' no one hasta get hoit." Secret's shudder went unnoticed.

            That was the last straw. Glaring, Jack drew back his fist and swung at Flick.

                        No one could really say just what happened next. One second, Jack's fist was flying toward the redhead. The next second, there was a loud crack, and their leader was staggering backward, then falling to the ground, with an involuntary cry of pain. The candle fell from his hand and went out at once. It was Snaps who grabbed it and re-lit it with a match from his pocket, holding it up to once again illuminate the scene. An enormous bruise had bloomed on Jack's cheek in fantastic shades of red, purple, and green. Flick stood with her arms folded. Not one eye had seen her move.

            Secret groaned.

                        For a moment, everyone stood frozen to the spot in pure, complete and total shock. Of all the shocking things that had happened tonight, this topped them all. No newsie in New York, except maybe Spot Conlon, could give Jack Kelly a shiner. No newsie in New York (except maybe Spot Conlon) or anywhere else as far as they knew, could hit that fast. Or that hard. And a _girl!_

             Finally Crutchy tentatively murmured, "Jack?" Cautiously, he approached Cowboy, his crutch tapping the floor. Mush followed, and they each offered Jack a hand, helping him up. Jack's face was scarlet with rage and humiliation, but his eyes registered something else as well. Racetrack, used to reading tells in people's faces during poker games, thought it might be a hint of grudging respect. No one was sure how to react to Flick's injuring their leader. Normally they would back Jack up in any fight and soak anyone who hurt him...although normally, no one hurt Jack. But this was different. This was a girl; none of the newsies was used to hitting girls. And she had only been defending herself. The silence was broken, rather tactlessly, by Pie Eater.

            "God," he said, "ya shoah can pack a punch, goil."

                        Flick's eyes, now flickering between sky and stormy blue, met Jack's squarely. "Any moah objections?" she asked quietly.

            Jack glared at her. An invisible thought bubble seemed to form above the newsies' heads: _Is he gonna try dat again? Finally Jack sighed and said, "Are ya at least gonna tell me why ya showed up heah, o' all places?"_

            Flick's eyes darted to Racetrack's bunk. He flinched and shook his head furiously, gazing pleadingly at her. Rolling her eyes, Flick turned back to Jack. "We jist hoid da sellin' was good in dese parts."

            Race relaxed somewhat for the first time that night. Jack glanced at Secret. "She fight as good as you?" he demanded.

            "Nah," Secret answered, "but I'se decent. Ya gotta be decent if ya loined from Flick."

                        Jack shook his head and seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, "A'right. I'll tell ya right now dat I don't like dis. I don't like _youse_ an' I wish ta God ya'd jist get outta heah an' leave us alone. But if yer dat detoimined ta be Manhattan newsies, I ain't gonna try ta stop ya no moah." (_I wouldn't eidda, _thought Race,_ an' risk anudda shinah like dat. It was now aquiring a yellow tinge.) "Dere's an empty bunk right dere," Jack continued, indicating the bunk next to Race and Blink's. "Ya can hang up a sheet, if youse really are goils."_

            Ignoring this last stinging remark, Flick and Secret walked over to the bunk, the newsboys hurriedly clearing a path for them, each one obviously trying valiantly not to look at the two girls. Flick grabbed a sheet from a pile near the washroom door and stood on the bottom bunk. Secret took the other end and joined her, helping her tie each corner to a low ceiling beam, so that the sheet hid both bunks from view. Then the girls headed into the washroom.

            The moment Secret had closed the door behind them, excited babble broke out in loud whispers. The boys headed back to their bunks, none bent on sleep now, all intent on gossiping about the new arrivals as much as possible before they came back into the room. Racetrack's best friends, Kid Blink and Mush, came to crouch beside his bunk and contribute their opinions.

            "Dat Secret's da most beautiful goil I eveh saw," Mush declared dreamily, stars in his eyes. He wasn't alone with this notion; Bumlets and Swifty were voicing similar opinions.

            "Dat Flick, dough," Blink marvelled, "can ya believe dat? _She...jist...hit...Jack!_ Gave 'im a shinah da size of a dinna plate, an' somehow got away wit it widdout gettin' any ha'self." He adjusted his eyepatch, his one blue eye focusing on the silent Racetrack. "Well? Whadda ya t'ink o' all dis, Race?"

            Race shrugged wearily, settling back onto his pillow. "I t'ink deyre both crazy an' dey won't last long. Now, will youse two get ta sleep? An' Blink, don't roll oveh so much t'night. Last night ya shook da whole bunk."

            When his friends were gone, Race kicked off his shoes, peeled off his suspenders, shirt, and undershirt, and pulled up the blanket. At that moment, the washroom door opened, and Flick and Secret emerged. Both were wearing ankle-length, sleeveless white cotton shifts that they must have taken from the pack Secret was carrying. Race raised an eyebrow, and there were soft whistles around the bunkroom. This was not just from the excitement of seeing Secret in a nightgown, though that was certainly part of it. In this attire, it was plain to see that Flick's shoulders and arms were rippling with a solid layer of hard muscle. And Secret, while not quite in Flick's league, was clearly no weakling herself. Several newsies winced in new sympathy for Jack. Jack himself feigned sleep.

            Ignoring the whistles and comments, both girls quickly disappeared behind the sheet, Flick climbing into the top bunk and Secret shoving their pack under the bed and taking the bottom bunk. Soon, regular breathing came from behind the sheet and from all around the lodging house, as one by one, the newsies sank back into slumber.

            Racetrack fell asleep hoping these crazy newsgirls would be gone soon, and everything would go back to normal. But he dreamed of endless poker games with the first worthy opponent he'd had in years.

            It seemed to Race that he woke up once more during the night. Well, really, around 5:00 in the morning. What woke him was the sound of ragged sobs coming from the sheet-enclosed bunk. He had never heard sobs like these before; they were wild and uncontrolled, with gasps in between, as if the person who was crying couldn't stop or control herself, could barely even breathe. And the amount of pure, raw pain that the sound expressed made Race shiver. However, despite their crazed and desperate tones, the sobs were heavily muffled, probably by a pillow; Race, in the bunk right across from Secret's, was the only boy they had woken. Then came Flick's voice, using a tone he hadn't heard her use before, and indeed, couldn't imagine her using: gentle and soothing. Race was going to ask what was wrong, whether Secret was okay, but thought better of it. After a few minutes of Flick's inaudible comforting, the crying subsided and Race drifted back to sleep. The next morning, he wasn't even sure if the whole incident had really happened or been just another dream.


	2. Chapter Two

**August 8, 1899, 6:00 A.M.**

"Get up, boys! Up, up, up! C'mon now! The ink's wet an' the presses are rollin'! Wake up! Get out there an' carry the banna'! Sell the papes, sell the papes!"

            Secret's eyes popped open as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on her. _What da...? Then a flood of memory came back. __Casino...Flick won a pokah game...Racetrack Higgins...Manhattan...Flick soaked da leadah... Secret swore softly. __Flick soaked da leadah! Someone remind me again why I hang around wit dis goil._

_            'Cause she's yer best friend, _her conscience replied. _An' ta keep 'er from gettin ha'self killed._

"Hey, Cowboy, what happened? Youse boys ain't been fightin' again? Or was it those Delancey rogues?"

            _Ah, da owna o' da lodgin' house. Lovely. Now we's in fer it, _Secret predicted silently.

                        Meanwhile, while the other boys, moaning and whining, dragged themselves out of their bunks and headed to the washroom, Jack answered Kloppman's question. "Nah, I jist fell down an' got a bruise. It's nuttin'." (_Saved, thought Secret in relief,_ by masculine pride.) _"But, uh, Kloppman, we 'ad a couple o' su'prises show up heah las' night an' announce dat dey was gonna stay an' sell papes 'round heah."_

            "I noticed the new signatures in the registration book," Kloppman replied. "Flick an' Secret, huh? These kids' names get strangeh all the time. So where're these newcomas, Cowboy?"

            Jack grinned eagerly and pointed at Flick and Secret's bunk. Kloppman followed his gaze and raised his eyebrows when he saw the sheet. He began to stride over to the bunk. Hearing his footsteps, Secret sighed. _May as well get it oveh wit. _She leaned forward and peered timidly around the sheet.

            There was the expected shocked pause, and then the old man gasped. To Secret's amazement, he began to laugh, a deep, scratchy, friendly laugh. "So, Cowboy," he called in the direction of the washroom, into which Jack had disappeared along with the other boys, "ya got yerselves a couple o' newsgoils!" He grinned at Secret and winked. "An' which one might you be, m'deah?"

            Secret decided she liked Kloppman. "I'se Secret, sir. Flick up dere is still asleep," she explained, motioning toward the top bunk. "I wouldn't bodda tryin' ta wake 'er if I was you. She's a real 'eavy sleepa. At our old lodgin' house, I useta dump watah on 'er or roll 'er outta bed, but now da boys are all in da washroom, so I can't get watah, an' she's in a top bunk heah."

            Kloppman laughed again. "Well, welcome ta the lodgin' house, Secret...an' tell Flick I said the same to 'er, if ya eveh manage ta wake 'er. Don't dazzle my boys too much, or they won't get any papers sold." With another wink at the unamused Secret, he left the bunkroom, whistling to himself.

            Jack came out of the washroom, glaring at Kloppman's retreating back; he'd been sure the old man would throw the girls out. Wanting revenge, he marched over to the girls' bunk, brushed the sheet aside, grasped the frame of the bed, and hauled himself up so he was level with the top bunk.

            Face smooth and pale, rather than flushed in anger, eyes closed, with the blanket pulled up to her chin and her dazzling red hair fanned out on the pillow, Flick looked a lot less intimidating when she was asleep. Leaning over her ear, Cowboy shouted at the top of his lungs, _"WAKE UP, YA LOUSY LIDDLE SCABBA!!!"_

Secret leaned against the wall by the washroom door, waiting for all the boys to get out, and making a mental note to get herself and Flick in first from now on. She ignored Jack's noisy attempt to wake Flick, knowing it was hopeless. Sure enough, the girl didn't even twitch. Stunned, Jack hopped down off the bunk and rounded on Secret. "What is she, some kinda mutant?!"

            Secret's frosty eyes narrowed, but before she could reply, a wave of boys came pouring out of the washroom. She saw that Racetrack was among them, flanked by the blonde boy with the patch over his left eye who she remembered from last night, and a cinnamon-skinned kid with curly brown hair. He blushed when he saw Secret, and the boy with the patch smiled, but Racetrack's attention was on Flick.

            "Hey, Blink, two bits says I can wake 'er up, whadda ya say?"

                        "Deal," Blink agreed, grinning.

                        _He betta win, Secret realized as the two boys spat in their palms and shook on it._ He ain't got two bits. Lost it all ta Flick las' night.__

Race brushed past the sheet and scrambled up to the top bunk as Cowboy had, but didn't scream in Flick's ear. Instead, he removed the cigar from his mouth and held the glowing tip a millimeter from her face.

            "Hey, Sleepin' Beauty, I t'ink I smell smoke!" he hollered.

                        A quarter of a second later, Race had leapt down off the bed to land on his feet, staggering before he steadied himself, and just in time; Flick sat bolt upright in bed, and her fist shot out in a blur, connecting with the exact location Race had just vacated. Either the heat of the cigar or the taunt had done the trick.

            "Liddle kids wit big mouths ain't got long life lines," Flick shouted after him as he snatched from midair a quarter palmed to him by Blink, and disappeared out the door of the lodging house. Flick then silenced the laughter of the newsboys crowded around the bed with a wild wave of her fist. She vaulted down from the bunk and probably would have run out of the lodging house in her nightgown and soaked Race within an inch of his life if the other newsies hasn't distracted her with introductions. 

            "Mornin', Flick, Secret. I'se Kid Blink. Dis heah's Mush Myers, and da bum dat jist ran off is Racetrack Higgins. Race, get back heah, 'less ya wanna sell by yaself t'day!"

            "Pie Eata, an' dat oveh dere's Bumlets. 'E's too shy ta introduce 'imself."

            "Am not!"

            "Da glum-lookin' guy in da pink shoit is Skittery..."

            "My name's Swifty. Fastest newsie in New Yawk..."

            "I'se Jake," announced a strange-looking kid in overalls and a bright red vest.

            "Crutchy Morris. Pleased ta meet youse," said, unsurprisingly, the boy with the crutch, grinning at Flick and Secret.

            "Snoddy," another volunteered. "Wheah're da rug rats?"

            "We's right heah, an' we ain't rug rats," piped up an indignant little kid with curly brown hair, puffing on a cigar that Flick was willing to bet he'd stolen from Racetrack. "I'se Snipeshoota," he informed Flick and Secret, "an' dese guys," he turned to a gaggle of little kids gathered around him, "are Boots, Tumbla, Slida, Shadow, an' Odds." Boots, a young black boy, spitshook with Flick and Secret, and Tumbler and Slider grinned cheerfully; Shadow, a shy black-haired kid, looked at the floor. Odds nodded a greeting. Flick noticed that he closely resembled Snipeshooter, and guessed they were probably brothers.

            "I'se called Snaps," laughed a black boy who looked about Flick and Secret's age, "'cause I'se known ta snap my fingas in my sleep. Lessee...da one suckin' 'is thumb...well, not anymoah, now 'e's glarin' at me...is Snitch."

            "An' dis's Itey," Snitch added, snatching the hat of the boy standing next to him, who proceeded to chase him out of the lodging house, shouting protests.

            "My name's Specs," a black-haired boy with glasses told them with a smile, "an' dat guy tearin' da drawer apart is Dutchy."

            The blonde Dutchy finally pulled a pair of glasses out of the drawer and jammed them onto his nose, glaring at Specs; Flick supposed that Specs had hidden them there.

            "A'right, ev'ryone, I t'ink dey get da pitcha. If yer not at da distribution centa by da time da bell rings, I 'ave a feelin' Trout ain't givin' ya any papes," Jack announced. He was scowling; he hadn't expected his boys to be so friendly to the girls, one of whom had given their leader a huge shiner just last night, and he wasn't at all happy about it. At his words, the newsies let out various exclamations of dismay and crowded around the door, and Jack wormed his way to the front and led them out. Flick and Secret glanced at each other, shook their heads, and dashed into the washroom. There they hurriedly dressed, splashed water on their faces, and headed out of the lodging house to catch up with the boys and follow them to Newspaper Row.

            The square was already teaming with Manhattan newsies who lived at home rather than in the lodging house, plus Snitch, Itey, and Racetrack. Snitch and Itey were climbing around on the statue of Horace Greeley while Race sat on its base, smoking a cigar as always, and playing Solitaire with his worn deck of cards. While the other newsies swarmed around the square, talking, laughing, and mock-fighting, Flick and Secret perched together on the opposite side of the statue base from Racetrack. To Flick's intense annoyance, however, they were quickly surrounded by newsboys wanting to talk about the events of the previous night, as well as everything else under the sun. The news of Flick's punching Jack had spread like wildfire; Flick wondered idly if Jack would find out who had gossiped and punish the offender. Though the endless streams of questions were all met with stony silence, Flick formed answers in her mind.

            Wouldn't they please tell where they were from? _No. _How long had they been selling papes? _A lot longa den all o' youse...ten yeahs, as if ya really care._ Why had they left their last borough? _Ya don't wanna know._ How long would they be staying in Manhattan? _Not long, I hope ta God. Did Secret have a fella? __Da foist one o' youse dat volunteers ta fill da position gets a broken arm. Where the he** had Flick learned to fight? __It ain't wheah, it's when. If you'd been frequentin' da streets since ya was four, ya'd o' picked up a few tricks too. Were Flick and Secret going to sell together? (Flick did give a curt nod to this query.) Why, WHY, did Flick dress like a boy? (This was brought up again and again.) _I'd like ta see all o' youse try sellin' papes in dresses. Ask Secret an' I promise she'll tell ya it's no picnic. Besides, fer da las' time, I ain't dressed as a boy, I'se dressed as a newsie. _And, most common of all, even asked by some of the newsies who lived in the lodging house, as if they hadn't been able to believe their own eyes: Had Flick REALLY punched Jack Kelly and gotten away with it!?!? __Yeah, an' I'll punch youse too if ya don't shuddup. _

_            Finally, Flick couldn't take it anymore. Secret, noticing the fire in her eyes a moment before the explosion, shook her head adamently, but Flick ignored her best friend. Leaping to her feet so suddenly that the closest boys jumped back, she bellowed at the top of her lungs, __"All o' youse shuddup an' leave us alone!!!"_

_            At this startling outburst, and the sight of her flashing eyes and threatening fists, the newsies fled, tripping over each other in their haste to get away from the statue and the psychotic newsgirl. At that moment, a loud clanging reverberated through the air: the distribution bell._

            "T'ank God," Flick exclaimed, extending a hand to Secret.

                        "Dat was completely unnecessary, y'know," Secret pointed out sternly, letting Flick help her up and following her toward the distribution window. "We's already got da leadeh against us afta ya went an' soaked 'im last night, an' now da rest o' dem are gonna hate us too, or at least be afraid o' us."

            "Who cares what dey t'ink?" Flick demanded, viciously kicking an innocent stone out of her way. "We ain't gonna be heah long. Anyway, dey ain't got any reason ta hate or be afraid o' you. Dat's deyre loss. I'se da one dat causes all da trouble."

            "Ya always have been," Secret agreed. "You an' dat tempa." She sighed in exasperation. A moment later, the full implications of her words bounced back at her, and she stopped short and turned to look at Flick, an expression of horror on her face.

            "Flick, I'se real sorry, I din't mean...y'know..."

                        "Dat's a'right," Flick replied quickly, though at Secret's words, she had gone slightly paler than usual and her eyes had darkened a shade. "C'mon. Let's get our papes."

            Jack, of course, was first in line, as usual. The man behind the window was tall and skinny, with frizzy grey hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a moldy-looking suit. His name was Mr. Trotwood, but it quickly became apparent that most of the boys addressed him as "Trout".

            "Hey, Cowboy, where'd ya get the shinah?" he chuckled.

                        "None o' yer biz'ness, Trout," Jack growled, his ears reddening.

                                    "Did ya maybe cross some blind old lady?" Trout suggested innocently, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles as a teenage boy counted Jack's papers. "Or make the mistake of tryin' ta soak a five-year-old? No, no, don't tell me; it was a lover's quarrel!"

            "Shut up an' hand oveh my papes!" Jack snarled. Trout grinned, shook his head, and obediently handed them over.

            When Flick reached the window, Trout glanced at her, grunted, "How many?" and then did a double-take. He raised his eyebrows and laughed loudly.

            "Wait, wait, wait," he protested, waving his hands theatrically at Flick, then glancing at Secret behind her and laughing harder, shaking his head furiously. "Since when have goils been sellin' papes 'round heah?"

            "Since we showed up las' night," Flick replied through clenched teeth. "Fifty papes."

                        "Feisty, are we?" Trout stared Flick straight in the eye. Flick stared back, seething; the old man's a face was the same mixture of amused and dubious that Jack's had been the night before, when Flick announced that she and Secret were staying.

            The newsboys watched without much interest; they were fairly certain of what the result of the confrontation would be. Sure enough, Trout's weak eyes soon began to tear over, and it wasn't long before he was forced to blink.

            "A'right, a'right, you win," he laughed, and finally accepted Flick's quarter, shoving a stack of fifty papers into her arms, then filling Secret's order for the same number.

            As soon as they were well away from Trout and their fellow newsies, Flick breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, Secret, wheah d'ya wanna sell?" she asked, using a much lighter tone than she'd been accustomed to lately, thoroughly glad to be rid of the boys. Unfortunately, it was not that simple.

            Not one of the Manhattan newsies had ever seen a girl selling papers before. All of them had met the Brooklyn girls at one time or another, but never during selling hours. So they were all very keen to find out such essential pieces of knowledge as how they improved headlines, whether anyone would bother the girls, whether they could stand up to anyone who did (though there wasn't much doubt in their minds about Flick by now), and, most crucial of all, whether the lazy summer breeze, with just a mild warning of autumn bite in it, would ever lift Secret's skirt.

            At first, it seemed as if all the newsboys in the borough were stalking them. Jake and Swifty popped up first while they were still on Newspaper Row, then Itey and Snitch showed up on Mott Street, followed by Bumlets and Pie Eater on Broome. Specs and Dutchy were hiding behind a docked sailboat at the Harbor, Snoddy haunted Bottle Alley, and Skittery, Tumbler in tow, lurked hopefully outside Irving Hall. Even the rugrats showed up, selling by the pond in Central Park, though this seemed more like coincidence than any of the other encounters, and quite likely Snipeshooter and Slider did not deserve being chased off by Flick.

            Finally, these "random" incidents dwindled, probably because most of the newsies were by now in no condition to stalk anyone, and could, in fact, barely muster the strength to sell papes. Black eyes, split lips, and bloody noses were at first nursed with handkerchiefs and whimpers of pain, then hopefully revealed to attract sympathy from customers, or proudly displayed as badges of heroism to passing girls almost as pretty as Secret and less violent than her selling partner.

            The incidents continued to dwindle until only three stalkers remained. Try as they might, Flick and Secret could not seem to shake the Three Musketeers. Long after all the others had given up and gone off to sell their papers and nurse their wounds, Race, Mush, and Blink persisted in showing up at every selling spot the two girls tried. The girls travelled all over the borough, even hawking a few headlines near the boxing ring, before they fled in alarm and disgust at the sight of none other than Jack, selling with a curly-haired boy and his younger brother who they had not yet met. It was not Flick's custom to run away from people; between fight or flight, she invariably chose the former. But these three newsboys...these three only, out of the thirty who lived in the Manhattan lodging house and any others Flick had ever met...seemed literally impossible to soak. They were forever dodging, weaving, ducking, slipping from her grasp, hiding, disappearing, only to reappear again just when the newsgirls had truly believed they were gone for good. After this had gone on for quite some time, Flick did something completely against her principles: she gave up. After all, the three boys really didn't seem to be doing any harm. They didn't taunt or bother the girls as some of the others had done; they didn't shadow their footsteps, imitate them, steal their customers, flirt with Secret, or pretend to trip in front of her and try to see up her skirt. They simply seemed to enjoy popping up in random places and greeting the girls cheerfully; and Flick, though thoroughly exasperated and vowing with all her heart to give them her best soakings when they returned to the lodging house, ignored it for the moment. She concentrated instead on selling her papers, as Secret has been doing all along; for they would have to sell if they wanted to eat, and pay for their nights in the lodging house.

            Around 2:00 in the afternoon, a crowd of filthy, ragged, exhausted newsies sat around the tables of Tibby's, eating a very late lunch and comparing bruises. None of them thought to miss the presence of three normally indispensable personalities; they figured they were probably still out selling, and had bought or stolen lunch from a street vendor. Or perhaps they were still persistently following Flick and Secret. As for the girls, no one had expected the antisocial pair to show up at the restaurant, so their absence was no surprise.

            The girls had indeed never considered eating with the boys; they'd bought sandwiches and apples from a vendor, and sat eating on a bench back on Duane Street, near the lodging house once more. At last, their trio of stalkers had given up their stupid antics. Most likely, Secret mused, they had gone to eat lunch at that restaurant the boys had been chatting about that morning.

            It was in this way that no one, neither the injured newsboys or the aggrivated newsgirls, missed the Three Musketeers that fateful afternoon. They were too busy concentrating on their troubles. And it was truly a pity, for the Three Musketeers were now having troubles of their own.


	3. Chapter Three

"Try Central Park, it's guaranteed," Racetrack sang softly, adjusting his cigar with one hand and waving a paper halfheartedly with the other.

            "Da t'ing is," Blink sighed, "Central Park apparently _ain't guaranteed no moah. I'se neveh known da sellin' ta be so lousy heah." He interrupted himself to holler, "__Diah threat ta New Yawk, thousands flee da state in panic!"_

            "So we's approachin' boid migratin' season again," Race commented. "Hey, it ain't much of a lie. Kitten born wit six eyes!" he yelled as an afterthought, then added, "I'd shoah call wintah a threat. Fer us, at least. What say we go track down da goils again afta one more sale?"

            "Aw, guys, can't we let 'em alone?" pleaded Mush, the quietest and most sensitive of the trio, as a gorgeous teenage girl batted an eyelash at him before buying a pape. It was a sure mark of Mush's distress that he didn't stop to blush and stammer a thanks.

            "C'mon, Mush, it ain't like we's doin' anytin' wrong," Race protested, continuing to walk and wave his papers in vain. "Dey gotta loin ta tolerate our company sometime if deyre gonna be livin' wit us. We ain't hoitin' 'em or teasin' 'em or nuttin', jist hangin' around 'em. T'ink o' us as deyre last hope. Da odda fellas 'ave all given up; if we can't make Flick an' Secret come outta deyre shells, no one can."

            "Secret may be in a shell," Blink muttered, rubbing a graze on his left arm, souvenir of one of the redhead's near misses. "Flick's surrounded by a wall o' fiah."

            At that moment, the three newsies froze. Standing at the edge of the park, with his back to them, was a boy about Race's age, fifteen, two years younger than Mush and Blink. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, and he was shouting something that they couldn't make out at this distance. However, passing pedestrians kept stopping and making some sort of exchange with the boy, handing him something and taking something else in return. It was a rather suspicious scene, and the Three Musketeers hurried over to investigate.

            Sure enough, the boy was holding a stack of newspapers. It was rather thin, as if he had been selling for quite a while and doing rather well. His pockets sagged with the coins he'd been collecting from his customers. He glanced up when the three Manhattan newsies approached him. Race frowned.

            "Hey, kid, when'd ya become a newsie?" he asked. "I don't rememba eveh seein' ya 'round." Most newsies started selling young, at seven or eight, and most of the regulars in any given borough knew each other at least by sight. Race certainly knew this boy didn't live at the lodging house, and he didn't recognize him as one of the many newsies who lived at home either.

            Looking down at Racetrack, the stranger smirked. "I'd look who I was callin' 'kid' if I was you."

            Race rolled his eyes. "I really doubt yer a day older'n me. Anyway, ya din't answa my question. When'd ya start sellin' in Manhattan?"

            "Yeah," Blink added, "I'd like ta know dat too. Ya new 'round heah?"

            The boy gave Blink a long look. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, I'se new."

            "Wheah ya from?" Mush asked, his tone friendlier than the other two.  
                        The strange newsie's smirk widened. "Jist oveh da borda."

                        Race frowned. "Queens?"

                        Crossing his arms, the kid nodded. "Yeah, Queens. Looks like youse hoid o' it. Well, tell me dis. Ya eveh hoid 'bout all da hot sellin' spots in Queens?"

            The trio exchanged confused glances, then stared blankly at the intruder. There were no hot selling spots in Queens. The boy's face was growing steadily nastier.

            "E'zactly. Da sellin' ain't been all dat great oveh dere lately. So some o' us t'ought we'd try our luck at da good spots: Bottle Alley, Central Park, an' such. But we come oveh heah ta Manhattan, an' whadda we find?"

            "Manhattan newsies?" Race suggested. The newsie glared. Race shrugged. "Look, kid, we's real sorry youse Queens fellas ain't havin' da best o' luck, but Central Park happens ta already be claimed by quite a lot o' Manhattan newsies, t'ree o' whom happen ta be sellin' heah right now. An' ya been takin' all our customas, so I'd suggest ya find a new place ta sell." Blink and Mush nodded.

            For a long moment, the Queens newsie stared at them, as if sizing them up. The three Manhattan newsies tensed. But at last the invader seemed to realize how stupid it would be to try to fight, one against three. Shrugging, he turned toward the street.

            "I'se almost outta papes anyway." But when he had left the park and started to cross the street, he glanced over his shoulder, and his nasty smirk had returned. "I don't t'ink youse seen da last o' Queens dough," he called. "I neveh finished tawkin' ta youse. What we found when we came heah dat we din't like was youse Manhattans crowdin' all da best spots. Dat's sometin' I t'ink Crow is gonna wanna 'tawk' 'bout wit youse." And before the three could react, the Queens boy had vanished across the street and into the crowd, snickering.

            Race turned glumly to his two companions. "Got a feelin' Cowboy should know 'bout dis."

                        Mush sighed. "Guess yer right. Poor Jack, dough. Foist two goils showed up las' night, an' one o' dem punched 'im in 'is own lodgin' house in front o' all 'is newsies. Den da goils insisted on stayin' an' sellin' heah...an' now dis."

            "Yeah," Blink put in mournfully, "I doubt he's gonna take da news o' dis latest trouble too well. Pity Queens."

            Race shook his head. "We's da bringas o' bad news. Pity us."

Jack was in a good mood when he arrived back at the lodging house. He, David, and Les had gotten all their papers sold. And, more to the point, after walking Dave and Les home to their apartment on Broome Street, he had stopped for what was originally meant to be a brief visit with their older sister Sarah. The visit had stretched into a rather long one, and Jack entered the Duane Street lodging house flushed and whistling to himself. After signing in, with a cheerful greeting to Kloppman, he headed into the bunkroom. There were his newsies, spread all over the room and engaged in their usual activities: chatting, gossiping, playfully fighting, stealing and hiding each other's hats and glasses, counting their day's earnings, reading leftover newspapers, smoking, pitching pennies, and playing poker, blackjack, craps, and other card and dice games. The only differences were that they were all fully dressed, and nearly all of them were sporting various injuries. Jack had heard all about these at Tibby's; they were the reason the newsies had voted not to sell the evening edition of the _World_ today. Both differences in the lodging house, he noted, were directly caused by the arrival of those two girls. Where were they, anyway? Probably in their bunk behind the sheet, talking or playing cards or counting their money. But after Sarah had clucked over the shiner on his cheek, insisting on wiping it with a soft, damp cloth and putting ice on it, and obviously believing that "the other boy" looked much worse, Jack was feeling a lot more forgiving toward Flick. She alone couldn't ruin his good mood. It took the Three Musketeers' news to do that.

            "He said _what?!?"_

_                        Mush cringed and stepped back, Blink and Race not far behind. All the other newsies stopped what they were doing and looked up apprehensively. Jack was livid. He simply couldn't take this. At the shock of learning about possible trouble from the newsies of another borough, and a rather tough borough at that, even the memories of Sarah's kisses dissolved, leaving only the current negative aspects of his life: Queens and Flick._

            _Queens an' Flick._

_                        In a moment, the two lines of thought connected like wires or magnets of opposite forces. There was almost an audible click._

            "Wheah're da goils?" Jack demanded.

                        Confusion etched on his face, Bumlets dropped the stick with which he'd been fencing with Swifty and pointed mutely at the hidden bunk. A moment later, Flick and Secret emerged from the other side of the sheet. Both faces wore the expressions becoming familiar to all the boys; Secret's calm and unreadable, Flick's fiery.

            "Youse two!" Jack pointed accusingly at them. "Yer from Queens, ain't youse? Dose newsies sent youse ta spy on us an' cleah da way fer 'em ta steal our sellin' spots. I bet ya ain't even newsies," he rushed on, his anger building with every word. "I'll bet yer jist da goils of a couple Queens newsies an' ya agreed ta do yer boys dis liddle favah."

            At that, Flick started toward Jack with pure murder in her eyes, but Secret was ready this time, and quickly grabbed the back of Flick's vest and restrained her.

            "We ain't from Queens," Secret informed Jack, in a voice that was the opposite of Flick's when she was angry; rather than lava, it was the temperature of ice. It was clear that she wouldn't be able to hold the struggling Flick back for long, and just might not even be trying especially hard.

            "Really? Dat so?" Jack demanded, unwisely ignoring the outraged redhead, having forgotten, in his own anger, about the little episode the previous night. "So it's jist an amazin' coincidence dat youse toined up da night befoah a Queens newsie barged in on one o' our sellin' spots an' threatened us, an' youse had no good explanation fer bein' heah, not ta mention da fact dat youse refused ta tell us wheah yer from!"

            Flick finally managed to jerk free, but Secret swiftly stepped between her and Jack and turned to her friend. "Flick...ya t'ink ya should tell 'em? It don't matta...really. I mean..."

            Race, standing nearby with Blink and Mush, realized that the situation was almost identical to last night's: Jack, Flick, and Secret in the spotlight, with all the other newsies watching the drama unfold. But now, Secret was between Jack and Flick. Would Flick go so far as to hurt her best friend to get at Cowboy?

            Apparently not. Though her cheeks were glowing like rubies and her now cobalt-blue eyes were practically spitting flame, Flick hesitated, then bit her lip and gave a curt nod. She turned to Jack.

            "We ain't from Queens. We's from Harlem."

            Jack regarded the two girls for a moment, a bit of his anger ebbing away at this small admission, but still retaining enough to be suspicious.

            "Yeah? Can anyone confoim dat?"

            To all the boys' amazement, it was Secret who answered, in the same voice of deadly frost. "Ya can ask any o' da Harlem newsies," she told Jack levelly, her eyes sparkling with anger, or was it...? _Nah, _Race shook his head,_ couldn't be teahs. _"But," Secret continued, "jist ta warn ya, I really don't t'ink dey'll wanna be bodda'd jist now."

            Jack snorted. "Right. Dat's pretty convenient, ain't it? Leaves us no one but da two o' youse who can testify dat yer really from Harlem."

            "I can."

                        The two words came out of the blue, spoken by someone who had until now been standing outside the spotlight, observing from a safe distance just like all the other Manhattan newsies. He had voluntarily chosen to drop his safe wall of invisibility and toss out two syllables into the middle of the battle. Twenty-nine newsboys and two newsgirls turned to stare in shock at Racetrack Higgins.


	4. Chapter Four

Looking around at all the pairs of eyes that had just swiveled away from Jack, Flick, and Secret to focus on him, Race gulped. _What in God's name possessed me ta say dat? Jist when did I develop suicidal tendencies widdout noticin'?_

_            "Race...?" Jack peered questioningly at him, as if suspecting he hadn't heard right. Race cleared his throat. __Well, I'se gone an' started it, may as well go t'rough wit it._

_            "I said I can. Confoim deyre from Harlem. Well, not really confoim it, but tell ya why dere's a real good chance dat it's true."_

            "Yeah?" Jack narrowed his eyes. "How's dat?"

                        _I am possessed. Dis is not me tawkin'. Dis is some sadistic evil spirit dat's controllin' me an' attemptin ta get me killed. An' it's doin' a real good job. _"Well," Race began with a quick sigh, "ya know I was out gamblin' last night. It 'appened ta be at a casino in Harlem. An' ya know da goils got heah right afta I got back. Well, actually dey got heah _because _I got back. Ya see, it went like dis..." And the story was out: his poker game with Flick (though he left out her victory; revealing that would be just too painful), her questions about Manhattan, her announcement that she and Secret would become Manhattan newsies, and finally, the inevitable conclusion: that the two of them had followed him back to the lodging house. Although he was careful to explain the various ways he had tried to dissuade them, he realized that the story still dumped most of the blame for their being here at all on him. _An' all ta convince Jack dat deyre tellin' da truth an' dey really are from Harlem. What if dey ain't tellin' da truth? What if Jack's right an' dey are spies from Queens? It'd make sense; it'd fill in all da blanks in deyre basic'ly nonexistent explanations. Why, WHY, am I doin' dis? Why do I believe deyre tellin' da truth? What do I care 'bout dese da** goils anyway?_

_            When Race had finished, he glanced around at the newsies once more, then looked at Jack and shrugged. "Well, dat's it. So if dey was in a Harlem casino, it makes sense dat dey'd be Harlem newsies."_

            Jack stared at Race. "An' ya jist decided not ta mention any o' dis las' night?" His anger seemed to be turning away from the girls and dangerously close to Racetrack, but Flick's voice broke in. "S'all true, 'bout da pokah game an' ev'rytin'," she informed Cowboy in a voice rather quieter and more controlled than usual, "but it ain't da kid's fault. Ain't like we'd neveh 'ave found da place widdout 'im." (Race suppressed a frustrated protest at being referred to as "kid" by someone no older than he was for the second time that day. She was, after all, sticking up for him.) "Anyway, I hope now yer reasonably shoah dat Secret an' me ain't spies. I jist want ya ta know," she continued, standing up straight and squaring her shoulders, "dat if dere's any trouble 'tween Manhattan an' Queens, we'll do anytin' we can ta help. An don't say dere's nuttin' we can do; it's absolutely pointless fer any o' youse ta deny dat we, or at least I, can fight. If dere's a war, we's in. As Manhattan newsies."

            Surprised at her words, Jack regarded Flick for a long moment. Then, slowly, to everyone's surprise and relief, he smiled.

            "I'se glad ta heah it. I'd shoah hate fer ya ta be on de odda side, Flick."

                        And so the evening ended rather better than anyone could have hoped. No blows were landed, no one went to bed angry, and Flick and Secret were, in a way, accepted as Manhattan newsies. Though everyone knew that the peace couldn't last forever and the conflicts were far from over, it was a step toward some semblance of calm, friendship, and normalcy.

            Racetrack fell asleep relatively content. He fell asleep again around three A.M., groggy and shaken, troubled by what had woken him. Secret was crying again.

**October 3, 1889, 11:00 A.M. **

_It was a cold autumn morning. A little girl, bony and dirty, only about five years old, walked down an unfamiliar street. She did not know where she was, but did not appear lost or scared. Shivering as a chill breeze played with her long mane of silky red hair, the child continued to explore her surroundings as the city came to life. Men in business suits caught trolleys to work, and women carrying parasols or with babies on their hips entered dainty little cafes for breakfast. The girl ignored them; she had no use for the rich. The steady cadence of hooves clip-clopping on the road drew her attention. A moment later, a wagon loaded with newspapers came into view, driven by a gnarled old man wearing a sullen scowl. The child watched it idly until it passed out of sight. Suddenly a strange sound met her ears. Stopping, the girl closed her eyes and listened. Yes, there it was again. Music, soft and sweet, enticing, hypnotic. Intrigued, the little girl followed the sound to a dim, narrow alley. There, against a rough stone wall, sat another girl. She was perhaps three or four years older than the redheaded child. She wore a faded dress of cheap navy-blue fabric, and her long, straight white-gold hair glittered in the sunlight. The young child who approached this stranger did not notice the stack of newspapers or shiny deck of cards that sat on the ground beside her, nor even the small crowd of people gathered around the lovely girl, tossing pennies, nickels, and even the occasional dime into the small grey cabbie hat that she held in her lap. No, the skinny, pale youngster was oblivious to everything except the blonde girl herself. She too seemed to take no notice of her audience; her eyes were closed, and she was holding to her lips a simple, rough wooden flute, blowing gently as her fingers played effortlessly over the holes. The melody that she produced was like the seductive music of a band of faeries playing in an enchanted forest on Midsummers Night. Unhesitating, the little girl sat down beside this fascinating human being and listened contentedly, losing track of time. Eventually, there was a lull in the knots of people wandering in and out of the alley, listening to bits and pieces of the girl's music and tossing coins in her cap. The sun had risen high and bright in the frost-blue sky, indicating the time to be somewhere around noon. It was not until now that the girl lowered her flute and opened her eyes, turning at once to her young companion, as if she had known she was there all along._

_            "Is dat what ya do fer a livin'?" the child asked at once, the harsh New York slang softened considerably by a strong, charming Irish lilt. The flute player grinned._

_                        "Part-time musician, part-time newsie, kid. Mostly newsie, actually, but I does a bit o' playin' now an' den when da papes ain't sellin' too good. An' when dere ain't no market fer papes or music..." She winked conspiratorially and patted the deck of cards beside her stack of papers._

_            "What's yer name?" demanded the bold little lass._

_                        "Dey calls me Song. Listen, kid, I gotta get ta peddlin' dese papes." She paused for a moment, as if considering. "Ya know, I has some trouble hawkin' headlines on me own. Ya wanna come along an' find out what kinda newsie ya makes? Sometin' tells me a kid like you'd be good fer biz'ness. Whadda ya say?"_

**August 8, 1899, 6:10 A.M.__**

"Racetrack."

            Race turned in surprise at the sound of his name spoken by a seldom-heard voice.

            "Yeah?"

            Secret sighed. She hated to do this, but she didn't feel like selling papers by herself today.

            "Ya wanna try yer liddle trick again ta wake Flick? At yer own risk, mind ya." Though neither her face nor her voice betrayed her, Secret was deeply worried. She had managed to get into the washroom first this morning, filled a cup with water, and dumped the whole thing over her sleeping bunkmate. Flick always slept like the dead, but even she had her limits. Water had never failed before. Yet this morning, she hadn't stirred.

            Race raised one eyebrow, a habit that was apparently unique to him. "Ya _want me ta threaten ta boin yer best friend's face off wit a cigar?"_

            "I want ya ta wake 'er up. Do whateveh woiks as long as ya don't scar 'er fer life or nuttin'. An' as long as ya realize she'll prob'ly kill ya da second she's awake."

            Race was quite impressed. This was the most he had ever heard Secret say. He glanced at the door to the washroom, which was filled with newsboys; he'd happened to finish getting ready a little early today. Now he was starting to regret this. But if he was the only one capable of waking Flick, he felt he really was obligated to do so. It was a duty, a good deed, a favor to her and Secret. Scrambling up to the bunk, he hoped, without much real hope, that Flick would see it that way. "Hey, dragon, heah's some fiah ta match yer poisonality!"

            A moment later, Race was once again fleeing the lodging house, as Flick hit the floor. But this time it wasn't just her fist that had scared him off. In the brief moment between the time he had held his cigar next to her face and taunted her and the time he had leapt off the bunk, Flick's eyes had snapped open. And they had been a blue as dark as the midnight sky.

Flick and Secret were in line to buy their newspapers when they were approached by none other than Mush, Blink, and, yes, Racetrack, although he was bringing up the rear and eyeing Flick warily. If there was a moment during Flick's short stay in Manhattan that she had felt less like being chattered to or teased, it was now. Her eyes shot sparks at the Three Musketeers that dared them to come a step closer or say one word. Nervously, Mush cleared his throat.

            "Listen..." He glanced back and forth between the two girls, his eyes settling on Secret, the far safer choice to make eye contact with, although he was addressing both of them. "Youse two know all 'bout da liddle skoimish we had wit da kid from Queens yestaday..."

            "Be hard not ta," Flick interjected acidly, "seein' as we was accused o' bein' mixed up in it."

            "Yeah, well," Race muttered, holding his cigar behind his back for fear it would offend her at this point, "we all know youse had nuttin' ta do wit it." Flick, who had been plotting murder for him from the moment she woke up, softened slightly when she remembered how he had defended them yesterday.

            "Anyway," Blink picked up. _(What are dey, Siamese triplets? _Flick wondered._ Ya can't have a convasation wit jist one o' dem widdout da odda two jumpin' in.) _"Anyway," Kid Blink was saying, "an' don't do anytin' befoah ya let me finish, Flick...we was wond'rin' if da two o' youse wanted ta sell wit us. I said, _let me finish,"  he pointed out hurriedly as Flick shouted a disbelieving exclamation and took a step forward, fists clenched. Blink took a step back and spoke very quickly. "It-ain't-like-we's-tryin'-ta-protect-youse-or-nuttin'-we-all-know-poifectly-well-dat-ya-can-take-care-o'-yaself-an-ya-prob'ly-fight-betta-den-most-o'-us-an'-we-jist-t'ought-we-should-all-be-travellin'-in-big-groups-so-we'd-be-able-ta-take-care-o'-any-trouble-real-fast-but-it's-completely-up-ta-youse-'kay?"_

            That said, the trio swiftly disappeared back to their place in line, being prominent enough newsies that the same three places were held for them every morning, like Jack's secure position at the head of the line.

            Flick whirled to face Secret, cheeks flushed. "Can ya _believe_ it? Sell wit dem...God presoive us...as if I hadn't given practic'ly all deyre friends shinahs jist yestaday, not ta mention deyre leadeh on our foist night heah...what is it wit dis masculine superiority!?!"

            Secret was holding up one hand, palm out, in that annoying gesture of hers. Next she would say 'Calm down an' tink 'bout dis rationally, Flick'.

            "Calm down an' t'ink 'bout dis rationally, Flick," Secret ordered firmly. "Shoah, da offa seems a bit insultin' at foist, an' believe me, I don't wanna hang 'round dose t'ree idiots anymoah den you do. But consida dis. If Queens really is plannin' an attack on Manhattan, dey ain't stupid. Dey know da newsies heah ain't e'zactly pushovas, so dey'll be comin' in big groups. Dat means it'll take big groups o' us ta fight 'em. We both know da two o' us can handle 'most anytin'...heck, you alone can handle most anytin'. But sellin' in groups won't hoit our chances, an' Flick, what dey said is true. Dey know we can fight real good, an' dey need us jist as much as, if not moah den, we need dem."

            Flick stared at her friend. "I hate yer mind, Secret. It's way too sensible. Sometimes I doubt if yer even human."

            _An' you ain't got any sense at all, Secret thought. _Ya jist act widdout t'inkin' o' da consequences. Dat's why I worry 'bout ya. _Once she would have said these words out loud. But now she held her tongue. She knew that she could no longer make such comments; they would hurt Flick far more than they would help her. Such advice now would be coming too late._

"Okay, wheah d'ya wanna sell?"

            Racetrack raised an eyebrow expectantly at Flick and Secret, who were facing Blink, Mush, and him several feet from Trout's window. Each newsie cradled a bundle of papers in his or her arms. Race still couldn't believe the two girls had agreed to sell with them. From Flick's highly reluctant and rather antagonistic expression, he was willing to bet (and, being Racetrack, probably _would have bet if he'd had any money) that it was Secret's doing._

            Flick shrugged. "Why don't da t'ree o' youse decide? Secret an' me don't know Manhattan dat well yet. We really din't get ta check out da sellin' in any one place...dat's one o' da inconveniences o' fleein' stalkehs all oveh da borough, y'know." She said this so pleasantly and conversationally that it took Race a couple moments to realize what she was talking about. He glanced at Blink and Mush, who had both gone slightly pink.

            "Yeah, well..." Blink shrugged. "Let's jist let bygones be bygones, shall we? Y'know, start oveh wit a clean slate an' all dat?" (Had Flick snorted? Race could swear she had.) "Anyway, 'bout da sellin' spot...hmm..."

            All of a sudden, Blink spun around, a mischievous grin on his face, and swooped off Mush's hat. With a yelp, Mush leapt to reclaim it, but Blink jumped back, swinging the hat out of reach. Twirling it above his head like a lasso, he took off down the street, Mush in hot pursuit. Laughing, Race charged after them, not yet sure whether he would join Blink in a game of keepaway with Mush's hat, or take Mush's side and gang up on Blink to help him rescue it. This was nothing new to him. The three of them played games like this practically every morning. The games took them all over the borough, so that none of them had a fixed selling spot like most newsies. At key locations, they would stop and call a truce so as to get some papers sold. As he struggled to catch up with his two best friends, Race glanced over his shoulder. Flick and Secret were still standing where the Musketeers had left them, staring after their three new partners, faces utterly perplexed. Race grinned, choosing not to worry about it. They were smart girls; they'd catch on soon enough.

"What da...what are dey...wha..." Flick blinked, nonplussed, as first Kid Blink, then Mush, disappeared from sight. The figure of Racetrack was growing steadily smaller, and would soon turn the same corner as the other two and be gone as well.

            "God knows, Flick," Secret replied, "but whateveh dey t'ink deyre doin', we seem ta have jist one choice: follow 'em!"

            And so they were off. Down the street, around the corner, down another street, and through an alley they raced before the three boys came into view again.

            "I can't _believe we's doin' dis," Flick announced, sweat glistening on her face, though she was not the least bit out of breath. She ran steadily in smooth, easy strides, and Secret's matched hers. Both were in very good shape, and both were quite fast._

            "Neidda can I," Secret replied, a good deal more mournfully than Flick, because running in a dress was pure torture. "I neveh t'ought I'd encourage ya like dis, but soak 'em fer me when we catch up, a'right?"

            "Will do," Flick replied grimly.

                        "Jist look at how da situation's revoised," Secret griped as she hiked up her skirt and leapt over an overtuned garbage pail. "Yestaday dey was chasin' us all oveh Manhattan, an' taday deyre makin' us chase dem! No matta what, it seems dey can always manage ta make us run."

            "Liddle exacise neveh hoit anyone!"

                        Flick and Secret both spun in the direction of the voice. Racetrack, perched on the fire escape of a nearby apartment building, saluted cheerfully. He seemed to have gained the lead; a moment later, Mush shot by with Blink chasing after him. Apparently Mush had recaptured his hat and taken Blink's in retaliation.

            "You----!" Choosing the closest target, Flick hoisted herself onto the lowest branch of a gnarled elm tree, and swiftly and skillfully scrambled up toward the fire escape. Secret, meanwhile, had gotten fed up and pulled a length of rope from her pocket. Hoisting up her skirts, she tied them firmly around her waist, then shot off after Mush and Blink.

            Race jumped back just as Flick leapt nimbly from an overhanging branch onto the fire escape.

            "What are youse t'ree _doin'?"_ she demanded as she sprang forward and swung at him, missing by an inch when he ducked. No matter; she had him cornered now, being between him and the only accessible tree. But there was one route she had failed to cover.

            "It's called fun, Flick!" he answered, dropping to his knees and quickly wrenching open the window of the apartment that opened onto the fire escape. "Get useta it!" And with that, he dove in through the window.

For a moment, Flick stared aghast at the open window. Then, shaking her head and muttering curses, she ducked down, tossed her bundle of newspapers in ahead of her, and wriggled through herself, promptly tumbling headfirst onto a living-room floor that was, quite luckily, carpeted. Rising to her feet, knees throbbing, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of a tall, balding man in a grey tailcoat standing beside a green couch, a pipe dangling limply from one hand and a newspaper from the other. From his expression of startled amazement and horror, it was clear that he had just seen Racetrack come through that very window. Race must have taken advantage of the man's shock and barreled on through the room and out of the apartment; Flick was privileged enough to find the man right when he had recovered his wits.

            "Street rats!" he bellowed, face reddening, tossing his pipe aside and rolling up the newspaper. "Burglars! Rogues! Get over here, you little--"

            And he charged at Flick, brandishing the rolled-up newspaper like a sword. Groaning, Flick ducked the wildly waving paper and took off, through a door, then another room that looked like a kitchen and a third which she only glimpsed in blurs, the stately gentleman with his bizarre weapon close on her heels.

            Finally, the door was in sight. Practically bursting into tears of relief, Flick thrust both hands around the door handle and tugged it open. It apparently opened onto a staircase. Slipping through and slamming the door behind her in the red face of her pursuer, Flick charged down the stairs, sides heaving, planning for Racetrack Higgins the most elaborate deaths she had ever planned. Tearing around a bend, she ran head-on into a tiny maid who was on her way up the stairs with an armload of clean laundry. With a startled cry, the maid stumbled against the railing, frilly white cap askew, and the entire load of laundry spilled from her arms and flew helter-skelter down the stairs.

            "Sorry!" Flick called without looking back, tearing down the rest of the stairs, trampling pants, shirts, socks, and ties underfoot, the only comforting thought being that they belonged to her newspaper-wielding friend.

            And there it was, the door out of the apartment building. Flinging it open, Flick half-expected goblins to come flying at her and attempt to tear her apart. With the luck she was having, it seemed a logical enough expectation. But something far worse than goblins awaited her. Racetrack, Kid Blink, and Mush were outlined in a row against a fence across the street. Eyes spelling "murder" as clear as day, Flick had crossed the street in an instant, and got a close-up view of the situation.

            The three boys were leaning against the fence, gasping for breath. Racetrack's hair was swept completely upward, like black ferns shooting out of the top of his head. Everyone seemed to have regained his rightful hat. Facing the Three Musketeers was Secret. Her skirts were still tied up, and quite ripped and filthy from when they had been dangling. One thing had changed, however, since the last time Flick had seen her. She was absolutely sopping wet from head to toe, her dress heavy and drenched, drips forming a huge puddle around her feet. She was tapping her own cabbie hat against the opposite hand like a club. Her eyes were narrowed to slits; she looked like she was deciding whose skull to smash first. When she saw Flick, Secret whirled to face her, opening her mouth and then keeping it open for several seconds while she surveyed her friend's ripped pant cuffs, flapping vest, drooping suspenders, and the lone polka-dotted tie draped haphazardly over her shoe. Flick followed Secret's gaze to the tie. _So dat's what kept trippin' me afta I ran inta da maid._

_            Composing herself, Secret cleared her throat and gestured with a lethal finger at two of the three very nervous-looking newsboys. "Dey...dey...d'ya know what..." she sputtered._

            "I take it ya caught up ta dem?" Flick surmised. Secret's eyes bulged.

            "Oh yeah, I caught up ta dem a'right. So den _dis_ one..." she flapped a furious hand at Blink..."grabs my hat an' takes off wit it. An' _he,"_  (Mush flinched), "takes off afta him, an' da two o' dem toss my hat back an' forth while I chase 'em down da street, comin' _dis_ close ta gettin' t'rown in da Refuge at one point when da bulls decided I must be a runaway thief, an' finally endin' up..." Secret's eyes were ready to shoot razor-sharp ice beams..._"in da pond in Central Park!!"_

_            Having gotten this off her chest, Secret turned back to the Musketeers and went back to calmly, logically planning their demise._

            Flick blinked. Secret's story seemed to have a few holes in it; Flick couldn't quite figure out how she had been chasing Mush and Blink in pursuit of her hat and ended up in a pond. She decided it was beyond her comprehension for the moment.

            "Well," she countered in a voice coming close to scorching the leaves off nearby trees, "at least ya din't hafta escape a maniacal guy wieldin' a newspapa club, den smash inta a maid bogged down wit laundry, an'...Secret, wheah're yer papes?"

            Secret glanced at her. "Take a guess."

            "In da pond."

            "Yep. Wheah're yers?"

            Startled, Flick glanced at her hands; then realization dawned. "In da psycho's livin' room. Actually, prob'ly feedin' 'is fiah by now."

            And with expressions of purest rage, the two newsgirls turned to face their unlucky prey.

Trading glances, Race, Mush, and Blink gulped loudly.

            "Er..." Blink cleared his throat. "C'mon now. Be reasonable. So Mush an' me kinda borrowed Secret's hat, jist fer fun, an' Race 'appened ta crawl inta an apartment. Ev'rytin' else dat 'appened was jist a bit o' bad luck..."

            "We's all real, real sorry an' we beg yer f'giveness an' it'll neveh 'appen again," Mush quickly contributed.

            "Ya wouldn't soak guys dat 'ave been runnin' around all mornin', wouldja?" Race pleaded, staring at Flick with huge brown puppy eyes.

            At Tibby's that afternoon, the three were forced to entertain their fellow newsies with outrageous stories explaining why they all looked like they had been run over by a carriage or thrown off a high building. They kept the stories short, however, and ate quickly. They had a lot of selling to do if they wanted to reimburse a hundred newspapers and a ruined dress.


	5. Chapter Five

**Same Day, 7:00 P.M.**

"Rash o' moidas plagues New Yawk! Five found dead in Brooklyn las' night!"

            Not one member of the unlikely group of partners had felt any desire to sell the evening edition of the _World,_ but skipping it again simply hadn't been an option. Race, Mush, and Blink had been forced to give all their profits from the morning edition to Flick and Secret. If they didn't sell that evening, not one would be able to pay for a bunk in the lodging house that night. Kloppman would likely let it slide, but they figured it wasn't worth it to risk otherwise. As for the girls, they were still far shorter on money than they should have been, from being unable to sell that morning, and therefore the five had no choice but to suffer each other's company again. The girls' consent had been bought by a system they worked out: they would spread out all over Central Park, each taking his or her own personal spot, and none would intrude on the others' territory. Thus, no interaction was necessary, though Secret flat-out refused to sell anywhere near the pond.

            "Gruesome pitchas included!" Racetrack added, for the benefit of any sick-minded customers, surprisingly common on the streets of New York. Selling a paper to a gnarled old man whose expression said that this was the most exciting news he'd heard since the Civil War, Race pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Only seven...the minutes seemed to drag by. But he was doing well; only a few papers left. With luck, he'd be able to get to the tracks in time to place his bet on Shadow Queen before she ran. Of course, her sire, Grey Lightning, was some country stallion no one had ever heard of, but her dam, Rains Fire, had been decent in her day. Anyway, Race had this feeling about Shadow Queen. He'd watched her train...there was something inside her, some inner fire, that would make her come through. He was certain of her; even more certain than he'd been of Searchlight, Definition Of Speed, and Algernon's Pride, his last three losing longshots.

"Bloody massacre, shockin' photographs!" Flick rattled off dutifully, oblivious to Racetrack's similar embellishment on the illegal duck hunters, as he was selling on the other side of the park.

            "Moidas, ya say?"

                        Flick spun toward the voice, poised for flight; people who wanted to stop and chat were not the type of customers a newsie wanted, particularly a newsie who used what Jack Kelly had coined the "improvin' da truth" method. She relaxed when she saw who had posed the question. It was a very small boy..._shorta den Racetrack_...whose age she had trouble guessing, due to the contradiction between his size and his hard, streetwise face. His hair was black, his eyes brown, and his skin a dark tan-olive. Ragged and underfed, he looked like pretty much any other young street kid, except for a strange expression in his eyes that Flick, for all her poker-aquired skills, couldn't identify. One thing was certain, however; she very much doubted that he had a penny to spare on a newspaper. She turned away, ignoring him.

            "Dere really are moidas, y'know." _Huh?  _Flick kept her eyes on potential customers, but found she was listening intently in spite of herself to the words of the kid who stood behind her. "All da time," he was saying. "Practic'ly ev'ry day. But da people dat get killed, dey ain't wealthy or important. Deyre nuttin'. Street trash, y'know. It happens ev'rywheah, ev'ry day, but ya neveh see it in da papes. Dey write articles 'bout duck hunts instead. 'Cause when da poor die, no one notices. No one cares."

            Three newspapers fluttered to the ground, forgotten. One heart pounded ferociously, blood screaming through veins, hands clenched, knuckles white. A pair of eyes turned very slowly toward the boy, eyes the deep sick black-blue of fresh bruises. _My God...who is dis kid!? An what da...does he...how can he...he can't! I won't...I didn't...it neveh...how much does he...no..._

_            The kid was gone, vanished as quickly and strangely as he had come. A breeze lifted Flick's three remaining papers and carried them across the park. Flick swayed. Scarlet swam before her vision. She couldn't think...she didn't understand...she wanted to scream...she wanted to soak someone._

            "Flick?"

                        She whirled, ready to slam her fist through whoever dared to approach her now, if she didn't pass out first.

            "Ya done?" Racetrack asked hesitantly. "Da oddas are...ya okay?" He frowned, taking a step closer. "Ya look kinda...Flick?"

            Flick stared at him for a moment as if she didn't recognize him. Then she shook her head, but not to answer no; more as if she was trying to clear it of something. "I'se fine," she replied shortly, "an' yeah, I'se done sellin'." And she tore off in the direction of the lodging house.

**That Night, 10:30 P.M.**

_Coincidence. _

            Flick lay in her top bunk in the Newsboys Lodging House. Sleeping newsboys lay in the bunks all around her; her best friend slept soundly, for once, in the bunk below her. _Secret. If only I could tell 'er...but no. It'd kill 'er. It was jist a coincidence, anyway. Flick squirmed and rolled over. She told herself the August heat was the reason her night-shift was moist with sweat. _Still, even if it was coincidence, jist because o' da headline I 'appened ta be hawkin'...dat kid shoah did undastand. He told it jist like it is. No one notices...no one cares. Who WAS dat kid? How old was he, anyway? What kinda woild is dis, wheah a kid da size of a postage stamp talks like some kinda old man? _The cotton was awfully itchy. The thin blanket was too heavy. She pushed it away restlessly. __What d'ya mean, 'What kinda woild is dis', Flick? Ya already know what kinda woild it is. Ya's been loinin' dat all yer life._

_            But it neveh really hit home till..._

_                        T'ings wasn't always so bad. Dere was so many good times..._

**May 1, 1892, 11:00 A.M.__**

_SKREEEEEEEEEEE!_

_            With a shriek, the eight-year-old girl dropped the flute, then dissolved into helpless giggles, joined by her eleven-year-old companion._

_            "Goil," the older girl groaned, wiping tears from her eyes and retrieving the flute from the grass, "dat's what it sounded like da foist time I tried it, but youse been tryin' fer t'ree yeahs!"_

_            "It ain't like I'se spent much time practicin'!" Flick protested indignantly, rising to her feet and scooping up a thin bundle of newspapers. "I'se been too busy wit all da odda t'ings ya's taught me...sellin' papes, playin' pokah..."_

_            "What ya's mostly been busy wit," Song declared wryly, also rising, "is gettin' inta fights! An' I neveh taught ya DAT!"_

_            "I'll say ya didn't," laughed the younger girl, absently stroking the roughly cut edges of her hair__, __which had grown shorter rather than longer over the years. "Ya couldn't land a punch on someone if dey stood t'ree inches away an' gave ya a cleah shot!"_

_            "Ah, shuddup!" Song snapped, grinning and swinging her papers at the redhead. "I'se da musical talent in dis liddle duo. Yer da tomboy...even weahin' pants now, fer God's sake! Why would I need ta loin ta fight when I got you?"_

_            "Ya wouldn't, I guess," Flick mused, smiling sweetly. "I dunno how ya su'vived fer eight yeahs widdout me!"_

_            Squealing in indignation, the blonde charged at her partner. Laughing, the two of them raced through the streets of Harlem till both were out of breath, then settled on their usual corner to hawk headlines._

_            After selling about half her papers, Song tucked the rest into her belt. Her face settled into a brilliant, eager smile, as if this was the moment she'd been waiting for all day._

_            "I'se gonna play," she announced. Barely taking her eyes from the headline she was trying to improve, Flick nodded. Song disappeared into a nearby alley, and after a couple moments, music, breathtaking in the unearthly beauty of its melodies, began to drift out of it.             Used to the sound, the younger girl continued to sell until her last newspaper was gone. As she considered whether to tell Song she was done or wait until Song finished playing, a commotion arose across the street. Frowning, Flick stared straight ahead for a moment, and made out two figures that seemed to be engaged in some sort of scuffle. Without thinking (which was how she tended to do everything), she dashed across the street and stopped in her tracks._

_            One of the figures was a girl who looked about Flick's age. Black hair cascaded down the girl's back; her eyes (creepy eyes, the redhead couldn't help noticing) were wide with fear and pain, and she was struggling valiantly. The other figure was a young man in his twenties. He had the girl's arms twisted behind her back, and his feet pinned hers to the ground. He was shouting._

_            "Wheah are dey!? Don't play dumb wit me, kid! Ya betta tell me dis instant, ya filthy liddle piece o' trash, or I'll break yer neck! Wheah are dey!? WHEAH ARE DEY!?"_

_            Sweat and tears mingled freely on the girl's face, which was the color of paper. The man gave her wrists another cruel twist, and she gasped sharply. But still she said nothing._

_            "YA GOT TEN SECONDS TA TELL ME WHAT I WANNA KNOW..."_

_                        "I won't tell! I ain't eveh gonna tell nuttin''!"_

_                                    These words, laced with agony, had barely escaped the victim's lips when a small fist connected squarely with the man's stomach. It was the fist of an eight-year-old girl, but it was a hard, muscled, much practiced, and entirely unexpected fist. It was enough to make the man release his captive's wrists, both hands shooting to his stomach as he pivoted in disbelief. The dark-haired victim and the red-haired assailant wasted no time; both were off, back across the street and into the alley where the music had just stopped._

_            "Are ya okay!?" This question was exclaimed by two voices simultaneously: by Song to Flick, and by Flick to the girl she had just rescued._

_            "I'se fine," both objects of the question replied, though the brunette was rubbing her wrists ruefully. Song raised her eyebrows._

_            "Someone's got some 'splainin' ta do."_

_                        Flick sighed, turning to the former victim. "My name's Flick," she announced. "An' dis," she gestured toward the blonde flute-player, "is Song. What's yer name?"_

_            Flick and Song both stared at the black-haired, bright-eyed child. She lifted her head high, lower lip protruding stubbornly, and stared back at them. "It's a secret."_

**August 9, 1899, 5:30 A.M.__**

Flick woke to the dismal rhythm of rain pattering the roof of the lodging house. She rolled her eyes resentfully at the leaky ceiling, as if both rain and dream were its fault. With the dream's vivid images still flickering through her mind, it took her a moment to realize, with a start, that Racetrack wasn't standing on the bunk ladder with a cigar and a taunt. She had woken up on her own. Flick was the heaviest sleeper in New York; she _never woke up on her own. Normally it took fire, water, or a painful crash to the floor. __Musta been da dream. 'Least dat's one good t'ing it caused. Now maybe I won't be late gettin' my papes fer once, an' Secret'll 'ave nuttin' ta nag me 'bout. She'll find sometin' else, o' course. Yawning, Flick reluctantly raised herself to her elbows and pushed her covers aside, dragging her sleepy, protesting body onto the ladder and down to the floor. She glanced into the bunk below hers; Secret was still fast asleep. Flick's face softened contentedly at the sight. _She din't wake up cryin' las' night. Foist time since...foist time fer a while. She's gettin' betta. Maybe. Maybe soon I'll be able ta stop worryin' 'bout 'er so much. _Flick hadn't an inkling how much Secret worried about __her._

            Brushing through the sheet that still hid the bunk bed, the redhead glanced around the bunkroom and saw thirty evenly breathing or softly snoring newsboys. For the first time in the history of the world, she was the only one up. Returning to the bed she shared with Secret, Flick allowed herself one last wistful glance at her bunk before pulling the patched old bag out from under the bed. _May as well get sometin' constructive done. I prob'ly wouldn't be able ta get back ta sleep anyway. _

            Humming softly to herself without even noticing, she reached into the bag and drew out the rather rumpled pair of pants she had worn the day before. Her mind elsewhere, she plunged her hands into the pockets of the pants, figuring she may as well count her profits from yesterday; she'd been too shaken from her encounter with the strange little boy to do so last night.

            Flick's hands froze. Her humming stopped in mid-tune. She stared for a moment at the pants in her lap, then yanked the pockets inside-out. They were empty.

According to Racetrack's pocket watch, which he snatched groggily from the small table beside his bunk, it was 5:35 A.M. when the entire lodging house was woken by a fiery demon standing in the middle of the room.

            _"A'right, who's got it!?" shrieked the fiery demon, who wore a worn and very wrinkled white nightgown and sported a head of wildly tangled red hair, as well as eyes the shade of Boots' darkest blue marble._

            "WhassamattaFlickgobacktasleep," Blink moaned from the bunk above Racetrack's; but some of the newsies were a bit more awake. Secret was at Flick's side the second her friend's hysterical accusation shook the bunkroom. Jack vaulted down from his bunk to land directly in front of the two girls. Sitting up with great effort, Race groaned as the other newsies dragged themselves out of bed to form a groggy ring of spectators. Just how many times was this scenario going to repeat itself?

            "What is it now, Flick?" Jack demanded, crossing his arms impatiently. His dirty-blonde hair was tousled, and he did not look like he appreciated being roused twenty-five minutes early; he wasn't such an unresponsive log as Flick, but he wasn't exactly an early riser either.

            "Betcha anytin' ya awready know, Cowboy," Flick snarled in reply, her face an inch from the Manhattan leader's and her cheeks rapidly turning from milk to roses. The surrounding boys, and the shadow of a girl by her side, watched the now-familiar transformation apprehensively.

            Cowboy matched her glare for glare. "Sorry ta disappoint ya, yer Ladyship, but I ain't got da slightest idea what yer tawkin' 'bout."

            Flick's eyes flashed like twin orbs of lightning. _Dey shoot sparks, Race marvelled from his new position, standing between Blink and Mush. __Dey honestly do._

            The girl spoke slowly, each word seeming to sizzle the air in the bunkroom. She addressed the newsies as a whole, though her eyes never left Jack's face. _"Someone in dis room has got fifty cents dat dey removed from da pockets o' da pants I wore yestaday. I dunno who, or how, or when, or why. All I know is dat whoeveh's got it had betta give it back wittin ten seconds or I sweah I'll soak ev'ry one o' youse."_

            Silence fell. Every one of the newsboys stared open-mouthed at Flick. Race's eyes darted hopefully to Secret, the only person ever known to have any sort of calming effect on the dragon; but even Secret's normally unreadable expression now betrayed her shock. She was in no condition to intervene before her friend did something drastic. Racetrack was a poker player. He read expressions as easily as newspaper headlines. And right now, Flick's expression spelled _drastic._

            _Da** it, Higgins, what has gotten inta ya dese days? he demanded, even as he found these traitorous legs of his carrying him over to the isolated trio._

            "Flick..."(the words came out of his mouth, though he'd give anything to know who was saying them), "...Jack din't steal yer money."

            The dragon whirled on him. Race flinched. His mind flashed back to the occasion on which Jack had accused the two girls of being spies for Queens. He had defended them then, and he remembered how Cowboy's anger had almost turned on him. What a perfect reversal of the situation. He might have enjoyed the irony if there had been anything to enjoy.

            "Ya'd know, huh, Racetrack?" she snapped, her voice lashing out like a whip. "Bet da two o' youse split it, huh? Too bad it was jist a couple lousy quartas, ya musta had ta leave da odda two Musketeers outta da bargain." Her eyes flew from Race to Blink and Mush, then continued over the surrounding crowd...to Specs, Skittery, Crutchy, Bumlets, Jake, Snaps. Beams of accusation seemed to shoot out and pin each boy in place. Watching, Race felt himself shiver. _She don't trust any o' us, he realized. __Not one. And for some reason, the thought chilled him. _What makes 'er so slow ta trust? So quick ta soak? So eaga ta fight...but not ta tawk...not ta make friends. What sets her apart, her an' Secret? Why...?__

            "Dis's pathetic." Jack's voice was acid. "Yer some goil dat showed up at our lodgin' house one night, refused ta leave, insisted on becomin' a newsie, ignored anyone dat tried ta stop ya, so we let ya stay, an' now yer accusin' all o' us. Tawk 'bout bitin' da hand dat feeds ya."

            _Suicide, Race decided, and Flick supported this conviction: her fist whipped back in a blur, ready to swing, and Jack's fists shot up in a half-defensive, half-offensive position. Something was about to explode.           _

            "None o' us stole yer money, Flick!" Race yelled desperately.

            Now her fist was frozen in mid-swing and her eyes were on him again. She looked confused, desperate, almost trapped. She could soak anyone she pleased, but she didn't know who to soak. _Fifty cents ain't no joke fer a newsie. Ya gotta sell fifty papes ta make dat, an' it buys a hun'ert. _He glanced around at the tense, bewildered faces, the faces of the friends he had known and lived with for years._ But it wasn't one o' us. None o' us would do dat. I'se shoah o' it._

            At that moment, to everyone's enormous relief, Secret recovered her wits.

            "Yer shoah it was in dose pockets, Flick?" she asked in her usual soft, calm tones. Flick glanced at her briefly.

            "Positive."

            "An' yer shoah it ain't dere now?"

            "Toined 'em inside-out."

            "Den," Secret concluded logically, voice carefully neutral even as she poised to grab ahold of Flick's sleeve if she charged anyone, "not ta jump ta conclusions or nuttin', but I'se willin' ta bet da money din't toin inta one o' Spot Conlon's 'liddle boids' an' fly out da window."

            "Flick...Secret..." came a hesitant voice from the back of the crowd, and everyone turned in surprise toward Mush, face upset and earnest. "Ain't dere anyone else dat coulda taken it? Dere ain't one o' us dat'd do sometin' like dat. Ain't dere any odda possibility?"

            Taken aback by shy Mush's contribution, Flick's fist slowly uncoiled, her arm falling limply to her side. Slowly, Race relaxed, watching the crimson glow fade from Flick's cheeks, watching them grow as pale as usual...no...paler. Mush's words hung in the air.

            _Ain't dere anyone else dat coulda taken it? Ain't dere any odda possibility?_

_                        Flick's next words were not accusing or threatening; they were a whisper of realization, disbelief, and anger...but anger no longer directed at anyone present._

            _"Dat kid."_


	6. Chapter Six

**Same Day, 12:00 Noon**

"I still wish ya'd tell me what happened."

            Secret eyed her friend suspiciously. The two of them stood side by side at the harbor, watching tethered sailboats bob on the unusually rough water as they methodically sold their papers. Their three partners were spread at intervals farther down the river, upholding the group's newly founded tradition of selling together but at a distance. It seemed to work well.

            Flick sighed, scanning the slightly blurred headline of a damp newspaper, and admiring the way the raindrops peppered the surface of the river, each one landing with a soft, muffled sort of pinging sound, sending up a tiny spray of water and creating a very brief pockmark. The sky was plastered in clouds, like someone had stretched a lot of dirty grey cotton over it, and it had been drizzling on and off all morning. They had tried several selling spots, but there was a distinct lull in customers due to the weather. However, none of them could afford to skip selling today; especially Flick, who'd had to borrow from Secret just to buy her papes.

            "How many times do I hafta tell ya, Secret?" the dragon demanded, frowning as another raindrop splattered onto the top of her stack, causing the ink to run and reducing the mayor's name to a dark, sticky blob. "Some doity liddle shrimp was hangin' 'round yestaday while I was sellin' in Central Park, an' he musta picked my pocket."

            "Huge storm headed fer New Yawk, many casualties expected!" Secret shouted, referring to a short article about the possibility of more rain that night, then turned back to Flick. "Yeah, I got dat much. What I don't get is how dis kid managed it. I mean, Flick, I'se known ya fer eight yeahs.  Ya's always hated pickpockets, so ya's always made a point o' knowin' deyre habits, an' ya ain't neveh let yer guard down. Da las' guy dat tried ta rob ya ended up wit a broken arm. Don't try ta tell me some liddle kid managed ta slip dat money right out from unda yer nose widdout distractin' ya somehow foist."

            "I mighta been distracted," Flick replied smoothly, though she felt her heartbeat increase slightly. _I was on da bordeh between faintin' an' killin' someone, does dat count as distracted?_ "Authorities say tornado's due ta hit Manhattan! I mighta had my mind on sometin' else." She glanced sideways at her friend. "Don't _you try ta tell me yer mind's neveh on...sometin' else."_

            Secret blanched, and Flick felt guilt squeeze its fist around her heart. But Secret wasn't the type to fall apart...only at night, when everything was dark and quiet. She merely bit her lip and nodded.

            "Yeah, dere's...dat. Dat'd be enough ta distract anyone, but..." Looking into her friend's eyes...eyes that were shifting too much for her liking...Secret shook her head. "I don't mean ta interrogate ya or nuttin', Flick, but if dere's anytin' ya wanna tawk about..."

            But Flick was saved from having to answer, for at that moment, an event occured which the next day's newspaper would refer to as a "cloudburst". The lazy drizzle of the second before was forgotten, and a torrential downpour came blasting from the heavens. Before the blink of an eye, the five newsies selling at the harbor were drenched to the skin.

            Screaming out of pure reflex, Secret ducked her head, folded her arms over her already ruined newspapers, and ran blindly down the riverbank, Flick not far behind. The two girls slammed right into Blink, who was attempting to use his own soggy papers as a makeshift umbrella, without much luck; the powerful rain slammed straight through the paper, peeling huge holes in it and spattering Blink's head and face. Mush fought his way over to the three of them, brown curls plastered to his head, and finally, Race appeared, slipping across the muddy grass, one hand holding his hat on and the other shoved into his pocket to protect whatever treasures might dwell therein. _Cigars, a pair o' dice, an' a deck o' cards,_ Flick thought, then felt oddly disturbed that she could guess the items.

            _"What are we gonna do!?" she screamed over the pounding of the rain, as the wind began to howl with fury, blowing the rain sideways and soaking the newsies even more._

            _"I dunno!" Blink bellowed in reply. _"No way we'll make it back ta da lodgin' house in dis!"_ _

                        _"Ya t'ink!?" _Race and Secret replied in sarcastic unison, then glanced at each other in surprise and suspicion. Flick rolled her eyes.

            _"Okay, I dunno 'bout da rest o' youse, but I find standin' heah gettin' drenched slightly uncomfortable. Youse t'ree are Manhattan newsies, fer God's sake, don'cha know anywheah we can go!?"_

_            Suddenly, inspiration dawned on Kid Blink's face. __"Medda's!" _

            _"What!?" Flick and Secret replied together, but Race and Mush both nodded vigorously, and the Three Musketeers took off down the river. _"Medda's!"_ Race shouted over his shoulder, almost tripping over a boulder obscured by the rain. _"C'mon, youse two, dis ain't da time ta ask questions! It ain't far!"__

_            "Best not be!" Flick hollered back as she and Secret raced to catch up with the boys._

            True to Racetrack's word, it wasn't long before they arrived at their destination. By then the storm was practically a full-force gale, everyone's remaining papers had been surrendered to the wind and rain, and they were all devoting their entire attention to holding onto their hats or, in the case of Blink and Mush, holding their pants up; their suspenders were hanging down around their waists as usual, and their pants were sagging with the weight of all the water they had absorbed. Flick barely caught a glimpse of a large sign depicting a woman with long red hair and a purple dress lounging in a seductive position. Then the door was flung open, and there stood the very same woman, in the flesh, squinting and leaning hard against the door as the wind battered it and torrents of rain blew into the room, spattering the woman's dress. In an instant, the five newsies had ducked their heads and dashed headlong into the building, and Race and Blink had run to the woman's aid, helping her slam the door shut in the face of the loudly protesting wind, and lock it securely.

            "Vell!" The woman turned to face the newsies and smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes and smoothing her damp skirts. "You're not the first arrivals!" She raised her eyebrows at their saturated clothing. "You'll have to get out of those clothes at once, you vill catch your deaths! Right this way, if you please. Some of your friends are already backstage, finding suitable outfits."

            Race beamed at her. "T'anks a lot, Medda," he said warmly, taking her hand and kissing it gallantly. Medda swatted playfully at him.

            "Ah, get on with ya, Racetrack! All of you, follow me!" She headed toward a door nearby, the Three Musketeers tripping over each other's dangling shoelaces in a race to be the one to open it for her, and it was then that she noticed the two newsies who hadn't moved, but stood staring at her, perplexed.

            "Ah!" She spun on them and curtseyed, eyes twinkling. "You must be the newcomers I've heard so much about! Kelly told me of the girls who are living in his lodging house."

            "If it's Cowboy dat's been givin' ya reports, ya can't o' hoid anytin' good," Flick predicted promptly. Medda chuckled.

            "Kelly's a good boy, but I pass my own judgments. You must be Flick, the fiery one. And the lovely shadow at your side will be Secret, the mysterious one."

            "Yep," Blink spoke up, leaving the task of door-holding to a surprised Mush and hurrying over to put his arm around the woman's waist. "An' _dis is Medda Larkson, da Swedish Meadowlark, greatest vaudeville star in da country."_

            "Aww, nonsense! Pure flattery!" Medda protested, though she was clearly blushing with pleasure. Gently removing Blink's arm from her waist, she motioned to the two newsgirls, who, somewhat mystified, trailed behind Medda and the Three Musketeers, through the door and into a spacious room packed with rows of seats facing a huge stage; obviously a vaudeville theater.

            "Velcome, my dears," Medda sang, with a flip of her long red hair and a flourish of her huge purple fan, "to Irving Hall."

            "We come heah wheneveh we can...all da Manhattan newsies do," Mush explained for Flick and Secret's benefit, taking off his hat and wringing it out rather ineffectually. "Da shows are terrific. Medda owns da place," he added, blushing slightly. Suddenly he realized what he was doing, and glanced down at the huge puddle his hat had just formed on the floor. This drew the gazes of the others to the floor, and the unpleasant realization that each of them was surrounded by his or her own personal little lake, fed by a trail of water leading all the way back to the front door. Secret let out a sort of whimper of dismay, and looked up, wide-eyed, at Medda.

            "We's...uh...real sorry 'bout...all dat," she babbled, "we'll clean it up an' ev'rytin'..."

            Medda laughed, loud and melodious. "No need, dear, the maids vill take care of it! There wasn't going to be a show today, since we expected no company in this weather, but I vill perform something special just for my favorite customers!" She winked. "Now, to the dressing rooms vith all of you, before you come down vith pneumonia!"

            Hurried backstage by Medda, Flick goggled at what was undoubtedly the most bizarre scene she had ever laid eyes on.

They had been brought into a room completely lined with mirrors. It also contained an enormous wooden chest and a row of purple silk screens, so that any who wished to might dress behind them in privacy. There were already six familiar boys in the room. One of them, she was dismayed to see, was none other than Jack Kelly. But this was Jack Kelly as she had never seen him before: in  a long navy-blue robe covered in gold moons and stars, that looked like it belonged on some kind of wizard. Trailing behind him was the nine-year-old boy Flick vaguely remembered being named Les something-or-other. He kept tripping over a pair of very ragged and holey pants, matched with an equally ragged red-and-white striped shirt. Waving a dripping wooden toy sword, he resembled a small pirate. His older brother...David?...seemed to be struggling to keep his dignity in...Flick did a double-take...yes, in a very puffy, pom-pom covered, outrageously colorful clown suit. Bumlets looked very awkward in an oversized tuxedo better suited to a groom at a wedding, Specs was wiping water off his glasses with a cloth and ignoring his huge white Greek-style toga, and Crutchy stood straighter than usual with his crutch, proud to have gotten off easy in a khaki military uniform.

            "Um..." Six heads snapped around in alarm to stare at the saturated forms of Race, Mush, Blink, Flick, and Secret, whose streams had followed them under the door leading backstage, and were now busy feeding new little private lakes. Race, the one who had spoken, blinked at his six friends, bemused. "Dis I miss sometin'?"

            David glared daggers at him. "Rub it in, why don't you, Racetrack?"

            "It ain't our fault," Specs moaned. "We was all soaked, an' it ain't like we had any private stashes o' spare clothes lyin' around. So we borrowed costumes from Medda. An' it looks like youse guys'll hafta do da same," he added more cheerfully, grinning at the private lakes. Jack had retreated into a corner, from which he scowled at Flick, doubtless imagining the torment she would subject him to with this new ammunition. But Flick was already busy digging through the costume chest. When Secret cleared her throat, however, Flick looked up just in time to see a furiously blushing Bumlets quickly turn away from Secret. Staring at her best friend, Flick blanched. Secret's dress, blue as usual, and as wet as could be expected, was clinging quite obviously to a certain area. Flick had no such problem, since her shirt had nothing to cling to.

            "I'd suggest ya find sometin' ta weah," she called to her friend, while all of the newsboys either struggled not to snicker, not to look at Secret, or both.

            "I'd hafta agree wit ya dere," Secret replied, shooting Bumlets a dirty look and joining her friend at the costume chest.

            Several minutes later, eleven newsies emerged from the dressing rooms. Race had grown considerably less cocky after being forced into a tiger suit, complete with paws, ears, and tail. Blink managed to retain a bit of self-respect in a shirt, pants, and denim overalls that probably served as a farmer's costume. Mush's long white lab coat suggested a mad scientist, and Secret was fuming in a glittery, feather-covered pink dress, having scathingly refused the accompanying hat, feather boa, and parasol. Indeed, the sole holdout of the ridiculous display, the only member of the group who had managed to come out satisfied, was Flick. In a black suit and sweeping cape lined with red silk, found buried in the bottom of the chest, she was the spitting image of any respectable villain, right in her element.

            "Wheah's yer wand, Cowboy?" she hissed maliciously in Jack's ear as an usher escorted the newsies to their front-row seats.

            "Shuddup," he muttered, ears reddening.

            "Ooh, whatcha gonna do, toin me inta a frog?"

            Jack had no chance to reply, for at that moment, Racetrack, who had crept up behind them, roared as loudly as he could. Jack jumped a mile and Flick took off after Race, who hitched up his tail and ran for his life. Mush shouted feeble pleas for them to quit it, while Blink muttered complaints about not being allowed to take the pitchfork that went with his costume. Bumlets fiddled with his tie, and Specs tripped over his toga and fell flat on his face.

            "Ahoy, me hearties!" Les shouted cheerfully. David had meanwhile dashed over to claim a seat and curled up in a ball of indignation and shame.

            It took the poor usher quite a while to get all the newsies in their seats, planting Flick firmly between Secret and Mush, two of the calmer personalities, and far from Jack and Racetrack, the two most likely to ignite her violent flame.

            At last, all was ready. The lights were dimmed, the spotlight was switched on, and to deafening cheers and whistles from the nine newsboys present, Medda Larkson took the stage.

            Flick watched and listened lazily, through half-slitted eyes and half-alert ears. The band in the pit struck up the first song. The Swedish Meadowlark began to sing, her voice loud and clear, and as wild and gaudy as her clothing and personality. She danced across the stage, her leaping, kicking, and twirling clearly professional, her voice carrying all the way to the back row, although her audience consisted of eleven ragged young storm refugees in the front row. Medda's eyes shone with delight; she flipped her hair and waved her purple fan. All of the boys were leaning forward in their seats; Les sucking loudly on a lollipop courtesy of Toby the candy vendor, David and Bumlets silent and rapturous, and the others yelling and waving, clapping and whistling and cheering. Jack and Blink actually leapt up out of their seats in their excitement. Flick and Secret exchanged looks and rolled eyes, Flick looking away quickly for fear that the image of Secret in that dress would give her strange nightmares. Medda kept on dancing and singing. The boys kept on getting themselves worked up over beautiful Medda. The music kept on playing. Drums, trumpets, violins, flutes...

            Flutes.

            _Flutes._

_            The music kept on playing...the music kept on playing..._the music kept on playing...__

**April 6, 1895, 8:00 P.M.__**

_"E'zactly how often d'ya gotta practice dat t'ing? Practice! As if ya even need ta practice. Ya play like some kinda goddess already. Ya can't even improve dat."_

_            "Oh, an' youse some kinda music expoit all of a sudden, Flick?"_

_            "I'se an expoit on yer music anyway, Song. Seein' as it's been da background sound fer pretty much ev'rytin' I'se done fer da past seven yeahs!"_

_            "C'mon, Flick, leave Song alone fer once, will ya?"_

_            "Ya shouldn't tawk, Secret. Ya's only had ta put up wit it fer five yeahs!"_

_            "Hang on, a second ago ya was sayin' dat I play like a goddess! Ya got a real fickle mind, ya know dat, kid?"_

_            "Kid!? 'Scuse me, I t'ink dose t'ree yeahs o' age dif'rence are canceled by da fact dat I can fight an' you can't!"_

_            "Really, Song, don'cha t'ink it is 'bout time ya loined ta fight? Flick's a real good teacha, ya know, an' yer fourteen yeahs old..."_

_            "Aw, don't you start in on me, Secret. I'se a musician. I don't wanna loin ta fight. I HATE fights."_

_            "Ya can hate 'em all ya want, but dat don't mean yer neveh gonna run inta one."_

_            "If I do, you'll be dere ta handle it fer me, Flick."_

_            "Yeah, well what if I'se not always dere? Den you'll regret not loinin' ta fight when ya had da chance!"_

**June 10, 1895, 11:45 P.M.**

_"Song, what're ya doin' out on da fiah escape? It's neahly midnight."_

_            "Go back ta sleep, Flick."_

_            "C'mon, what's up?"_

_            "Ya wouldn't undastand."_

_            "Try me."_

_            "It's jist dis one song. I can't seem ta make da notes flow e'zactly right. It kept playin' in my head an' I couldn't sleep, so I t'ought I'd come out an' practice."_

_            "Hmm...guess I can't help ya dere."_

_            "I'll say. Ya still can't even hit one note!"_

_            "Yeah....but...."_

_            "But what, kid?"_

_            "It's Flick, ya heah!? Not 'kid'. Ya want me ta soak ya? As I was sayin'...well, I kinda came out 'cause I couldn't sleep eidda. So, ya t'ink I could stay out heah wit ya an' listen ta ya play? Maybe ya'd get it right wit an audience."_

_            "A'right. It's woith a try........"_

_            "God, Song, I don't see what's wrong wit it. It sounds beautiful ta me."_

_            "Nuttin's wrong wit it...not anymoah. Ya musta brought some kinda inspiration, kid. Ow! I din't desoive dat!"_

**October 3, 1898, 10:00 P.M.__**

_"Song?"_

_            The music kept on playing..._

_            "Song..."_

_            The music kept on playing..._

_            "Song...ya got robbed. It took ya a lot o' time an' woik, sellin' papes an' playin yer flute, ta make all dat money. But it ain't da end o' da woild. Ya's jist gonna hafta oin it back, an' make even moah. Song, listen, I'll soak da guy fer ya, okay? I'll find 'im an' soak 'im. Song, please come outta dere, or at least stop playin' dat da** flute...dat tune's really weird...it's creepy...Song, please stop."_

_            The music kept on playing...and playing..._

**August 9, 1899, 1:00 P.M. __**

...and playing.

            "Flick...Flick...FLICK!?"

            Like a rubber band, everything suddenly snapped back into focus: the huge hall, the bright lights, the seats, the stage, the crowd of outrageously dressed newsboys surrounding her, and a very concerned Medda. It was Racetrack who was calling her name, Racetrack in a tiger costume.

            "Flick, ya a'right?"

                        But the image didn't register. Flick's only awareness was that someone was touching her, shaking her. It was enough. A moment later, Race pulled his arm back with a cry, watching in more shock than pain as a large, ugly dark-red bruise appeared where Flick had punched him. He stared at her, and she stared back, eyes moving slowly from his face to his arm. Her jaw dropped. Slowly her eyes moved up again to meet his.

            "Ya...ya went all stiff," he stammered, seeming to feel he was the one who owed an explanation. "Ya weren't answerin' when anyone tawked ta ya...ya din't get up when da show was oveh, an', uh...yer eyes are kinda dark, Flick...an' Secret..."

            Secret? Coming to life, Flick spun in her seat. Secret was huddled on the floor in front of the seat next to her, face buried in the lacey pink sleeves of her dress, sobbing helplessly.

It had stopped raining by the end of the show, but the newsies' clothes were nowhere near dry yet. Luckily, Swifty showed up with a bunch of extra clothing. Apparently, he'd been selling on Duane Street with some of the others when they were caught in the storm, and they had made it into the lodging house. Swifty had figured there would be at least a few fellow newsies stranded at Irving Hall, and was considerate enough to bring them the clothes after the rain stopped, sparing them the excruciating ordeal of going home in their absurd borrowed attire.

            The newsies changed in silence. All the way back to the lodging house, everyone either stared openly at Flick and Secret or avoided looking at them altogether. Racetrack alternated between the two options, watching Flick deflect as many glances as possible with her now infamous glare, while Secret walked briskly beside her, cheeks still slightly flushed, eyes glued to the ground. Despite being peppered with questions, concern, even compassion from every newsboy present...little Les had looked devestated, and even Jack hadn't bothered to disguise his worry...there had been no explanations, only curt assurances from both girls that they were fine. This was after Secret's sobs had subsided enough for her to talk, and Flick had returned from her rigid, pale-faced, dark-eyed stupor. _Dis can't go on much longa,_ Race thought wearily. _Afta Secret stopped cryin' ev'ry night an' Flick stopped givin' out quite so many shinahs, I t'ought dey musta gotten oveh whateveh was bodderin' 'em. But afta tonight...well, dose two ain't gotten oveh anytin'. Just loined ta hide deyre feelin's betta. It obviously ain't da kinda t'ing ya can jist get oveh. Dey'll hafta face it sometime...an' I'se worried, _ he realized, startled. _I'se worried 'bout what'll happen when dey do face it. I'se worried 'bout how dey might react...what dey might do. 'Specially Flick. _He shivered slightly, remembering the look in the redhead's eyes when he shook her arm, and how quickly her fist had shot out. Just like when she hit Cowboy, he hadn't even seen it move. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, wincing, and suddenly a stray thought drifted unbidden through his mind: _If she hits dat fast an' hard when she don't even know what she's doin', what da he** is dat goil capable of when she's really mad? _For, after three big showdowns between Flick and Jack, and her countless skirmishes with virtually all the other newsboys, Race still had a disturbing feeling that he hadn't yet seen Flick "really mad".

"Gov'na involved in huge scandal, trial date ta be set!" Mush called from a street corner.

            "Hey! Dat's no way ta repay Teddy Roosevelt fer gettin' da Refuge shut down an' Snyda arrested," Blink pointed out, riffling through his own evening edition.

            "Dat's biz'ness," Mush replied dryly. "Anyway, it eases my conscience a bit dat dey got a new warden, an' da Refuge's been up an' runnin' again fer two weeks now."

            Rather than try to think of a retort, Blink glanced worriedly at Race. The youngest member of the trio had been uncharacteristically quiet this evening. He wasn't selling as well as Blink and Mush, and didn't even seem to be smoking his cigar with the usual gusto. Blink doubted this had anything to do with the shiner Race had collected from Flick. He'd had worse; he'd even had worse from Flick, the day he got her chased by the gentleman with the rolled-up newspaper. No, Blink suspected Racetrack's mood had more to do with the circumstances under which Flick had hit him. Certainly, those circumstances lurked in the mind of every Manhattan newsboy, but they seemed to be affecting Race the most.

            "Ya okay?" Blink asked his friend, and Mush glanced over with concern in his eyes. Race frowned.

            "O' course. I'se fine."

            Blink rolled his eyes. "Right. 'Bout as fine as Flick an' Secret were oylia dis evenin'." 

            At his words, the Three Musketeers glanced apprehensively down the street, where their two "partners" had claimed a corner of their own.

"Dey's watchin' us," Flick informed Secret.

            "I know," Secret replied quietly. "Listen, Flick, I'se real sorry I broke down like dat. It was stupid."

            "Se-cret!" Flick gave her friend's hand a squeeze. "All ya did was cry, goil. Ev'ryone's got a right ta cry once in a while."

            Secret gave her an odd look. _Except you?_

_            Flick was too preoccupied to notice the look. "Ev'ryone's got a right ta cry," she repeated in a murmur. "What no one's got a right ta do is hoit people. Fer no reason."_

            "Flick..." Secret's ice-blue eyes looked straight into Flick's navy-blue ones. "Ya din't know what ya were doin'."

            "E'zactly," Flick replied, eyes flashing. "An' how long'll it be, Secret, befoah it's moah den jist a shinah on da arm...befoah I _break_ someone's arm 'cause I _din't know what I was doin'!?" _Her voice trembled. "How long'll it be...befoah I..."

            "Flick!"

            Flick started at Secret's sudden anxious outburst, then shook her head. "Sorry. Look, I'se down ta my last few papes. I'se gonna go apologize, 'kay?"

            And she set off resolutely down the street in the direction of the Three Musketeers. 

"Racetrack?"

            Race didn't spin around as she had expected, but turned rather slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he'd been expecting this, and dreading it. Flick couldn't help being slightly amused at the way Blink and Mush went right on hawking headlines and politely pretending they didn't know she was there; especially since Blink was out of papes.

            Race was looking at her. She tried to read his face. A combination of expectation, wariness, and...something else. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on, and wasn't sure she wanted to.

            _A'right. Now's yer chance. Go ahead. She took a deep breath. _Go on. Get it oveh wit._ Still she hesitated. _Oh, fer God's sake, Flick! Ya jist gotta apologize ta him. Ya punched da guy, an' ya din't mean ta. So now yer gonna say yer sorry. Dat ain't so hard, is it?_ She opened her mouth. _C'mon, ya can do it...'I'se sorry'...'I'se sorry'..._ _

            But she couldn't do it. She simply couldn't, even if she had done something that she knew perfectly well was wrong and hurtful and confusing and warranted an apology. Apologies were _not_ Flick's style. Race raised one eyebrow. Flick cleared her throat.

            "Ya up fer pokah t'night?"

                        Well, it wasn't an apology, really; but surely it could be labeled a peace offering.


	7. Chapter Seven

**That Night, 8:00 P.M.**

The game started out with eight players: Race, Blink, Snaps, Dutchy, Snoddy, Itey, Jake, and Flick. It was against the better judgment of all the boys to play in a poker game that included Racetrack, but the fact was that it was more-or-less impossible to find a poker game that _didn't include him. Besides, there was the matter of Flick. Nothing that this particular girl said or did could really be called a novelty anymore; they had learned to expect anything and everything from her. But a girl gambling was still a bit of a curiosity, at least._

            Luckily for all present, Jack was out with Sarah, greatly minimizing the chances of Flick's flying into a rage. Mush was also on a date, with some girl named Victoria who he'd met while selling, but several of the other newsboys gathered around to watch the game. Secret also pulled up a chair, looking more cheerful than anyone could remember seeing her. She didn't even object when Bumlets squeezed into the seat between her and Odds.

            Racetrack shuffled and dealt the cards, tingling with anticipation. This was what he'd been waiting for ever since the night he first met Flick in the casino in Harlem: another chance to play poker with her. What with her behavior since arriving at the lodging house, he'd begun to worry that the chance would never arise; but now, here it was, and Race couldn't wait to begin. His eyes met and locked with Flick's. Both pairs of eyes, his brown and hers that rare light blue, contained a private challenge. They alone knew there were really only two players in this game.

            Most poker games take a while to build up any kind of excitement or suspense. The players have to get warmed up first, as do the cards before they start blessing anyone with above-average hands. This game was different. The first ante was barely over with when Flick began her outrageous raising of the pot, and thus commenced a poker tournament like none that anyone present except Flick, Race, and Secret had ever witnessed before.

            Itey was the first to fold. Jake followed not long after. Snaps stuck around until the fourth hand before bowing out of the game. Dutchy decided not to brave the sixth, and after the next round, Snoddy bade an impulsive farewell. Kid Blink looked from the fire-haired dragon on his right to Manhattan's most famous gambler, best friend or not, on his left. Grimly, the blonde boy tossed down his cards and left his chair to join the growing ranks of the audience. On either side of the poker table, necks craned to see the two players' carefully concealed cards; no one dared get too close. The players' faces were scrutinized by the more experienced gamblers in the room, but no one could get anything out of Race or his opponent. Racetrack's expressionless poker face was too well perfected and, just like the night in the casino, Flick's eyes were glued unwaveringly to her cards. Observing this, Race felt the lightbulb go on in his head.

            _Her eyes change coloh! Dey change wit 'er moods, dark when she's mad or upset, an' lighta when she's happy. Dat's why she's so ca'hful ta keep 'em down all da time durin' a pokah game; oddawise, da quality o' her hand would be cleah as day jist by a coitain shade o' blue._

_            He didn't have much time to ponder this realization, however; Flick had just raised the pot a whopping two bits._

            Thirty minutes passed. Then thirty more. An hour, an hour and a half...the time slipped away like water through a seive. Jack returned to the lodging house, earning an outburst of teasing questions about whether he'd had fun with Sarah, but neither of the poker players so much as glanced at him. Cowboy took one look at the game, shook his head, and headed to his bunk. Soon the other boys began to follow suit. One by one, they took to their bunks and drifted off to sleep to the soothing lull of, "Call...raise ya five...two pair...t'ree of a kind..."

            Finally, the only people remaining awake were Flick, Racetrack, and Secret. Stifling a yawn, Secret watched as Race shuffled the deck yet again. Neither he nor Flick seemed to notice that they'd lost most of their audience.

            _Deyre jist like Song when she's playin' 'er flute. The comparison flashed across Secret's mind, and a moment later, another thought caught up to it that left her numb. Springing to her feet, she dashed across the room to curl up in her own bunk. Still, neither gambler glanced up from the cards._

            It wasn't until the candle on the card table had burned down to a stub and Racetrack's last cigar was reduced to a tiny mound of ash that Flick started violently, as if coming out of a deep reverie (which she was), and announced, "Dis ain't goin' nowheah."

            Also starting, Race stared at her, and raised one eyebrow in his characteristic amused/mocking gesture. "Did I jist heah da dragon _forfeit?"_

            "Nah, ya jist hoid Flick O'Grady suggest forfeitin' as _yer course o' action," the girl replied, glaring across the table at him. "An' dat is my name, by da way. Flick O'Grady. Not 'dragon'."_

            Race grinned. "Whateveh ya say, Flick...so, ya shoah ya don't wanna t'row in da towel?"

            "Take a guess, kid," Flick replied sweetly. This time it was Racetrack's turn to glare.

            "A'right, how 'bout a compromise heah? If yer name ain't 'dragon', mine ain't 'kid'."

            Flick considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "Deal," she agreed, spitting in her hand. Race spat in his, and they shook on it. At that moment, the bunkroom door popped open and an irritated face topped with white hair poked into the room, followed by a hand clutching a formidable broom.

            "Racetrack! Flick! Ta bed with youse! Stayin' up this late playin' poker, an' they 'spect me ta let 'em sleep in the next mornin'," he muttered, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Flick.

            "Sorry, Kloppman," Race called, saving a laugh until the old man had closed the door and retreated back down the stairs. He turned to Flick, his expression one of sincerest regret.

            "Guess we betta get ta bed, den."

            "Guess so," Flick replied equally reluctantly. She rose to her feet with a groan, stretching her stiff limbs, then added sharply, "but leave da cards alone, ya heah? Dis ain't oveh. If ya get up in da middle o' da night ta deal yaself a royal flush or sometin', I'll heah ya."

            "Shoah ya will," Race replied, also rising and grinning mischievously, "'cause youse _such_ a light sleepa, Flick..."

            Dodging a blow, he dove for the safety of his bunk, shaking the whole bunk bed.

            "What da...Race, get ta sleep!" moaned Blink's half-awake voice from the bunk above.

            Race settled down sheepishly, and Flick rolled her eyes and headed to her own bunk, brushing through the sheet that surrounded it. Glancing at Secret and deciding that her friend was sound asleep, Flick scrambled up to her bunk and closed her eyes. Hearts, clubs, aces, and spades danced in her head.

            "So, Flick," piped up an angelically innocent voice from the bunk below her, "welcome back. Youse two 'ave fun?"

            Secret caught a pillow full in the face.

Five minutes later, Flick O'Grady was, as usual, sleeping like a log. She dreamed of poker and poker alone. _Not_ of her poker opponent.

            Not much.


	8. Chapter Eight

**August 10, 1899, 6:00 A.M. **

"Becomin' immune ta da smell o' smoke, Flick? Do I need ta actually boin ya dis time?"

            "Ya really do 'ave a deathwish, don'cha, Race?" Flick muttered without opening her eyes.

            "Yeah, prob'ly. So, ya sellin' t'day, or does pokah really take dat much outta ya?"

            "Not when I'se playin' 'gainst a rookie," Flick retorted, finally peeling her eyes open and promptly pushing Racetrack off the bunk ladder. With a yelp, he fell past an amused Secret to land in a crouch, hands shooting out to break his fall.

            That day, to the absolute astonishment of all the newsies, Racetrack Higgins, Kid Blink, Mush Myers, Flick O'Grady, and Secret all sold their papers along the street outside Irving Hall. They did not isolate themselves; some witnesses even claimed that Flick and Race spent the entire morning arguing amiably about poker techniques. The boldest insisted that Secret even tolerated Mush's flirting. It was Snitch who stubbornly maintained that Blink once grabbed Flick's hat and took off with it, and when she inevitably caught him, she only reclaimed her hat, shook her head, and returned to her selling spot. Whether all of these eyewitness accounts were entirely accurate or not remains a mystery, but the most unbelievable event took place that afternoon: when the Three Musketeers arrived at Tibby's for lunch, Manhattan's only two newsgirls...fiery Flick, who dished out shiners like handshakes, and introverted Secret with her icy eyes who barely ever said a word...followed their selling partners into the restaurant and casually sat down at a table in the midst of two dozen slack-jawed newsboys.

            Bumlets was the first to speak. "Welcome ta Tibby's," he said softly, smiling shyly at Secret. Secret nodded slightly in acknowledgment.

            "How'd youse guys do it?" Dutchy demanded of the Three Musketeers. "Youse brought 'em outta deyre shells."

            Flick snorted at this. "Yer handin' out credit ta da wrong guys, Dutch. Secret an' me jist got sick o' wilted sandwiches an' bruised apples."

            "Aw, c'mon," Pie Eater spoke up. "Ya can't e'zactly get delicacies from Manhattan street vendas, but youse can at least get fresh food."

            "Only if ya can afford it," Flick snapped, turning to give her order to the waiter.

            "Afford it?" Blink repeated blankly once they had all ordered and the waiter had scurried off to the kitchen. "Why don'cha jist snitch sometin'?"

            Flick's eyes flashed dangerously. "I don't approve o' stealin'," she replied curtly.

            "She don't," Secret whispered confidentially to Racetrack on her left side, "but she's also hopeless at it."

            "Well, it shoah is good ta know she's hopeless at _sometin'!" _ Race exclaimed, drawing laughter from the other newsies, and earning Secret a glare from Flick.

            Things were going remarkably well. Flick and Secret were chatting cheerfully with the boys they had been living with for four days, but had barely spoken to the entire time, much less gotten to know. At first they were all more than a little wary about addressing Flick; there wasn't one among them who didn't have the remnants of a bruise she had inflicted. But it soon became clear that Flick's temper wasn't quite so violent as to explode completely unprovoked. And when Jack, clearing his throat and sounding almost embarassed, asked Flick how the selling was, and she responded perfectly civilly, the atmosphere in the restaurant seemed to become considerably more relaxed.

            Unfortunately, such moods seemed to have a tendency of being short-lived lately, and this one was no exception. The waiter had just delivered their orders when the door to Tibby's burst open, and three young boys dashed into the restaurant. Ignoring stares from the few non-newsie customers, they hurried over to the newsies' section. One of them leaned against the table that the girls were sitting at, panting heavily.

            "Snipes!?" Jack was on his feet in an instant. "What 'appened!?"

            A nasty shiner was swelling on Snipeshooter's cheek, and another glowed on his right arm. His two companions crowded in on either side of him, and a collective gasp came from the newsies. Tumbler was sporting a black eye, and Slider had a grubby handkerchief pressed to his heavily bleeding nose.

            "Snipes?" Cowboy pressed, hurrying over to support the younger boy. Skittery, meanwhile, had leapt to his feet, his expression a mixture of alarm, concern, and anger, and hurried over to Tumbler. Specs saw to Slider.

            "We was sellin' in Central Park like usual," Snipeshooter explained, sinking into a chair, "an' dese t'ree boys came up ta us an' started bodderin' us, sayin' we was in deyre sellin' spot. Well, y'know we always sells dere, so we told 'em ta get lost. An' den..." Snipe trailed off.

            "Dey soaked us," Slider finished glumly.

            "We fought 'em an' all," Tumbler spoke up, gratefully accepting a fresh handkerchief from Skittery and claiming a chair of his own, "but dey was a lot bigger'n us."

            "An' one o' dem," Snipeshooter added, "I t'ink dey called 'im Muscles, 'e said, 'Tell yer leadeh dat Manhattan's days o' easy sellin' are oveh'."

            Jack's face was hard. "Queens," he said coldly.

            "Queens," Race agreed, scooping several ice cubes from his drink into his napkin, and handing them to Snipeshooter for his bruises. Specs did the same for Slider.

            "Da one called Muscles was prob'ly da kid we met in da park a couple days back," Race confirmed. "Da one dat said deyre leadeh was gonna wanna 'tawk' wit us."

            "Big woids," Flick mused dryly, eyes the hue of soaking-wet denim, "but apparently deyre 'tawk' consists o' soakin' liddle kids dat ain't got a chance at fightin' back. Typical."

            Ignoring the rugrats' indignant protests at Flick's words, several of the newsies glanced at Flick in surprise. She was so clearly accustomed to soaking people herself, it hadn't occurred to most of them that she actually had ethics on the subject. But of course, now that they thought about it, she had never touched any of the rugrats.

            "So what're we gonna do?" Skittery demanded.

            _"Soak 'em!!"_

_            Jack and Flick stared at each other, aghast. Had they just yelled the same thing at the same time? Most of the other newsies looked no less surprised._

            "Um...did I jist heah da two o' youse agree?" Snitch stage-whispered, looking blankly from Jack to Flick and back. "Should I call da _Woild an' tell 'em so dey can stick it on da front page tomorra? Sellin' should be easy; da whole city'll be shocked."_

            "Deyre a lot moah alike den dey know," Secret declared wisely. Cowboy and Flick each pinned her with their trademark scowls; she crossed her eyes at them. Jack shook his head in disgust.

            "Wheah were we?" he demanded.

            "You an' Flick were tellin' us how we's gonna soak Queens," Blink replied helpfully.

            "Dat ain't e'zactly practical, though, is it?" Skittery protested.

            Jack raised his eyebrows at him. "How come? Don't 'cha see what dey did ta t'ree o' our newsies? We ain't jist gonna let 'em get away wit dat!"

            "I second dat notion," Flick volunteered.

            _"You jist want an excuse ta fight," Secret grumbled, then raised her voice to its normal level; soft, but clear and audible. "Skittery's right. Chargin' inta Queens an' startin' a full-blown war ain't gonna do us no good. Dey'd be prepared, expectin' us, an' it'd be on deyre own territory; we wouldn't 'ave a chance."_

            "I t'ink," Bumlets spoke up hesitantly, "dat da best t'ing ta do would be ta let 'em come ta us. Deyre obviously plannin' on dat anyway, an' we can all be prepahed ta defend ourselves. In da meantime, da liddle kids can get olda sellin' partnas ta look out fer 'em."

            "T'anks a lot, Secret," Jack moaned, smiling. "Ya's started a mutiny among my newsies."

            "Nah," Secret replied seriously, "I'se jist t'ought 'em ta t'ink fer demselves." She yelped and dodged several catapulted spoonfuls of potato.

            "Guess dat's settled, den," Jack sighed, though both he and Flick wore expressions of profound disappointment. "Youse guys got Flick an' me outvoted. It ain't a bad strategy, I gotta admit."

            "But if dey come neah any Manhattan newsie again," Flick added menacingly, "God help 'em." Secret gulped quietly and pitied Queens with all her heart.


	9. Chapter Nine

**That Night, 8:15 P.M.**

"I'se out!"

            Blink happily displayed two empty hands; his last paper had just vanished down the street with a hurried businessman, and his last penny, into his pocket.

            "New Yawk economy headed fer disasta! T'ank ya, miss," Secret murmured sweetly, tipping her hat to a well-dressed young woman, then turned to Blink and announced, "I'se out, too."

            "Hey, guys!" Mush crossed from the other side of the street, grinning. "Jist sold my last few papes ta dis liddle caravan o' rich suckas...'Freak oithquake predicted ta split America in half'..._honestly!"_

_            Blink laughed. "Great. Dat jist leaves..."_

            "..._dem," Mush finished, pointing down the street._

            Sure enough, Flick and Racetrack were approaching slowly, engaged in some sort of conversation that would probably mean nothing to anyone but them. 

            "Wheah'd day sey dey was goin' again?" asked Mush.

            "Da venda down da street," Secret replied. "Ta get sometin' ta eat."

            "Took 'em long enough," Blink observed.

            "I'll say," Secret agreed.

            The three newsies shut up promptly when the two subjects of their discussion entered hearing range. Flick turned away from Race to give them a suspicious look.

            "So, what've youse t'ree been up ta while we was gone?"

            "Sellin'," Blink replied glibly, smiling broadly and holding up his hands again to prove it. "We's all out."

            "Us too," Race replied cheerfully. "An' jist in time ta get ta da track."

            This triggered groans from the other two Musketeers. Flick and Secret exchanged questioning looks. Race noticed and grinned.

            "What, din't youse eveh consida dat dere might be a _reason _fer my name?"

            "When was da las' time ya went?" Blink demanded.

            "Two days ago," Mush supplied promptly. "I should know, seein' as it was my money he was bettin' wit."

            "Hey!" Race protested. "I told ya I'd pay ya back!"

            "True...an' as I said," Mush added pointedly, "dat was two days ago."

            Deeming Mush hopeless, Race turned hopefully to Blink. Before he'd even opened his mouth, however, Blink was shaking his head adamently.

            "Uh-uh, don't even t'ink 'bout it, ya don't even wanna know what ya owe me right now."

            "So I'll pay it back t'night," Race explained eagerly, "afta Fallin' Star wins--"

            "Jist like Shadow Queen won?" Mush interjected.

            Flick couldn't help it; Racetrack's expression was so deeply forlorn that she had to take pity on him. With an exasperated sigh, she produced a coin from her pocket.

            "I can spot ya, but I'se tellin' ya right now, I had _best_ get it back."

            "Ya will!" Race beamed, surprised and delighted, as he took the coin. "Soon as Fallin' Star wins t'night..."

            "Yeah, well, I'd best get it back whedda Fallin' Star wins or not. Wheah ya goin', anyway?"

            "Sheepshead Races," Race informed her patiently. "Coney Island."

            "I'll come," she announced impulsively. "I'se neveh seen a horse race."

            Several seconds passed in silence. "Anyone got a problem wit dat?" Flick demanded.

            Four mouths snapped shut; four heads shook furiously.

            "Nah, dat's great!" Racetrack assured her, wondering if he was dreaming. "Anyone else wanna come?"

            "May as well," Blink sighed. "Nuttin' like seein' a friend t'row 'is money away..." He dodged Racetrack's swipe.

            "Mush? Secret?"

            Mush shrugged. "Actually," he admitted, "I hoid Cowboy an' Dave was goin' ta Brooklyn dis evenin' ta visit Spot an' his boys. An' goils," he added, glancing at the two girls present. "I was t'inkin' o' goin' along. Ain't been dere in a while." He turned shyly to Secret. "Ya wanna come?"

            A lightning-quick glance was exchanged between Secret and Flick. Flick bit back her protests; the longing in her friend's eyes was plain.

            "Shoa...why not?" Secret shrugged, feigning indifference. "Neveh been ta Brooklyn, but I'se hoid it's great...like da centa o' da univoise, an' all." She coughed, realizing she was babbling slightly. "'Scuse me fer a second, dough."

            While the boys looked on curiously, the girls walked a few paces away, out of hearing range, then turned to face each other. Secret's gaze was pleading. Flick gave her a long, hard stare, then sighed.

            "Jist be ca'hful, a'right? As in _real_ ca'hful? As in _do not mention da name Flick O'Grady anywheah neah Spot Conlon?"_

_            Secret nodded firmly and saluted. "Gotcha. It ain't like he don't know I'se yer friend, dough," she added. "Spot knows ev'rytin'."_

            "True," Flick answered grimly. "But I'se willin' ta bet dat if you don't bring me up, he won't eidda. I ain't e'zactly 'is fav'rite subject. If he boddas ya at all, dough, I'll go straight ta Brooklyn an' soak 'im."

            "I'll jist bet ya will," Secret muttered, starting to head back over to the puzzled boys. Then she turned and called over her shoulder.

            "Oh, an' Flick?"

            "Yeah?"

            "You be ca'hful too, a'right?" Her voice softened, and quavered a little with her next words. "'Cause we's got moah serious t'ings ta worry 'bout den Spot Conlon...an' some o' dem ain't da kinda t'ings ya can soak."

"Wow."

            Flick sat up straighter in the small box at the Sheepshead Races, craning her neck for a better view of the horses lined up at the starting gate.

            "Wow?" Race repeated.

            "It's jist..." Flick shrugged. "It's big. An' crowded."

            Blink snorted. "Welcome ta New Yawk."

            Flick reached across Racetrack to whap at Blink with her hat. "I'se lived in New Yawk all my life, t'ank ya very much. Jist din't know horse racin' was dis popula."

            "Wit good reason!" Race was quick to defend his beloved sport.

            "Race, I'll neveh say a woid 'gainst horse racin' if dis 'Fallin' Star' o' yers wins t'night. 'Cause den I might actually see dose two bits again."

            "Flick O'Grady, are ya sayin' ya don't trust me?"

            "Judgin' from da past experience o' da gentleman on yer right..."

            "Uh, Flick, didja jist call me a gentleman?"

            "Sorry, Blink, slip o' da tongue."

            Blink was spared having to think of a retort by the ear-splitting bang of the starting gun. The gate flew open, the horses were off, and Flick, for what was perhaps the first time in her life, was struck speechless.

            Eight horses fairly flew across the track, eight blurs of speed, eight stunning machines of muscle and power, eight souls soaring unfettered and free as the wind. Their colors flashed by in the dim, shadowy dusk's half-light: jet-black, ivory white, moon-grey, rich reds and browns. Their hooves pounded the track, their silky manes and tails streamed behind them in the wind. The jockeys were small, compact specks clinging to the backs of their mounts, urging them on. Whenever, during her life, Flick had happened to bother to think about horse racing, her general impression had been, "A bunch o' big, sweaty animals run down a track an' da foist one ta da finish line wins." Now...she was doing more than watching the horses run, she felt like she was _one of them! Maybe that glossy red mare with the ebony mane, the wild one, neck bent into the wind, cutting left and right and just managing to dodge her competitors. Her jockey was obviously unable to control her; that would be Flick, all right. _Deyre beautiful! Is dere anytin' moah powehful den dat...moah spirited, moah free? __

            One look at the girl's rapturous face revealed everything to Race. The tough, terrifying, untouchable Flick O'Grady had just fallen in love with horse racing.

            "And the winner is Scarlet Flame, ridden by Kyle Novotasky!"

            Before Flick knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, leaping up and down, waving her arms, and cheering her heart out, with a smile that lit up her face like a jack-o'-lantern.

Race stared at the girl leaping up from her seat beside him, screaming her approval of the rebellious red mare that had won, owing no thanks to its incompetent jockey. Was this really the Flick he knew? The same Flick who had soaked him, who had soaked Jack Kelly, who had soaked practically every Manhattan newsboy? The same Flick who played poker like an emotionless stone, who lashed out at people whenever they spoke to her, whose eyes went dark and shot fire when she was angry? Now...

            Now her cheeks were flushed with joy and excitement instead of anger. Her eyes were baby-blue, bright and animated. Her cap remained on the seat, and that flaming red hair billowed up around her face in the wind, almost glowing in the light of the gibbous moon that had risen. If Racetrack had known the word _incandescent, "lit from within", he would have applied it to Flick now._

            _It ain't like I was wrong 'bout her when I foist met 'er. She ain't pretty...but dere's sometin' inside 'er dat makes ya look at 'er, sometin' dat shines an' boins, sometin' so terrible an' beautiful at da same time...God, now I'se soundin' like some kinda poet. But da t'ing is, Race concluded,_ whateveh she's feelin, whedda it's anger or sadness or happiness or whateveh, she feels it ta da extreme. She feels it so strongly dat it blazes up all around 'er an' makes odda people feel it too. Dat's what's so amazin' an confusin' an' even terrifyin' 'bout her...it's how strongly she feels ev'rytin'. If she's mad, she's ready ta kill someone...an' if she's happy...__

_            Before Race knew what was happening, Flick had spun around, pulled him up out of his seat, and thrown her arms around him. Laughing aloud at his state of shock, she squeezed him in a hug that practically suffocated him, then grabbed the stunned Blink and did the same to him._

            "Uh...Flick..." Race gasped, finding himself shaken out of his pensive state, and terrified that some bizarre spirit had possessed Flick. "Fallin' Star was a close second, y'know, but I can't pay back yer two bits now," he pointed out, attempting to bring her back down to earth.

            "Consida it a gift," Flick replied magnanimously, eyes still shining with excitement in the aftermath of the race. "Now, we might wanna be gettin' back ta da lodgin' house, 'cause we got a pokah game ta finish, an' I'se gonna crush ya, an' den yer jist gonna owe me money again, an' by da way..." Flick took a step back, folded her arms, and favored Race and Blink with her most scorching of glares. "Dis absolutely, positively _did not happen,_ got it?"

            "Got it," Race and Blink chorused, both thoroughly relieved to see the return of this familiar aspect of their "dragon".

            "But, uh, Flick..." Race ventured as the three of them headed away from Sheepshead, jostling through the crowd of departing spectators, "ya wanna come again sometime?"

            "Take a guess, kid," Flick replied with a smirk. "Long as it's someone else's money next time."

            Walking through the shadows with Racetrack and Kid Blink, the gentle breeze on her face, mind full of her new hobby, Flick was happy. Perfectly, blissfully happy. How easy it was to forget.

            No...not to forget. They were still there, lurking in her mind, the images, the words, that would mean the end of everything if she let them float to the surface. She was simply disregarding them, pushing them away, trying to pretend they weren't there at all...trying not to believe. If she tried hard enough, it wouldn't be real...

            If only that were true.

Twilight was falling over New York City, in deep, cold shades of muted blue. The summer breeze rustled suporifically in the lush green leaves of the trees scattered along the bank of the East River. The serenity of the evening was disturbed by the appearance of four young intruders.

            Secret stared in awe at the scene before her. A light mist swirled over the surface of the river, seeming to catch the twilight's soft sapphire hues and shimmer almost magically. The cry of an early-rising owl sounded eerily from one of the trees, and the water rippled in response, lapping gently against the shore.

            "It's beautiful," she murmured, as she stepped reverantly onto the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time in her life. "So peaceful."

            "I know," Mush agreed, smiling slightly. "Not fer long, dough."

            Secret blinked quizzically at him. "Why...?"

            "AAAUUUGH!!"

            "Dat's why," Mush explained, laughing at Secret's stunned expression. Jack and David, having finished yelling off the bridge, joined in the laughter.

            "Come on, Secret," Dave urged, having taken a liking to her, although they had only just been formally introduced. "Try it; it's fun."

            "No t'anks," Secret replied with great dignity.

            After taking a moment to admire the view, the four crossed the bridge, and Secret found herself confronted by a wild herd of boys. They were everywhere: swimming or wading in the water, swarming all over the docks, running and jumping and playing, chatting and shouting and laughing and fighting. Secret had to consciously refrain from covering her ears against the din.

            "Welcome ta Brooklyn!" Jack announced, grinning at her.

            As they passed the docks, many of the boys waved or nodded and shouted greetings.

            "Hey dere, Kelly, ain't seen ya in a while!"

            "How's it goin', Mouth?" (Secret managed to figure out that "Mouth" was David.)

            "Mush, good ta see ya!"

            There were also a great many whistles directed at Secret. She narrowed her eyes at every whistler she could pick out of the crowd. Mush looked none too pleased, either.

            "Maybe I shouldn't o' ast ya ta come!" he said apologetically, speaking loudly over the commotion.

            Secret rolled her eyes. "Flick toldja, da night we arrived, what would 'appen ta any guy dat touched eidda o' us!" she reminded him.

            Mush remembered Flick's words, and if it had been Flick here, he wouldn't have been worried at all. But this was Secret, and despite her confidence and muscled arms, he just couldn't seem to picture Secret fighting. It was like picturing Flick hugging someone.

            "Well, if it ain't a visitin' party from Manhattan!"

            Secret started at the sudden appearance of a boy directly in front of them. Then she pulled herself together and stared.

            He was certainly on the short side, maybe 5'1, yet everything about him demanded attention and respect. His golden hair was hidden under a dark grey newsboy cap. He wore a shirt of a checkered pattern, white and light grey, and...yes, bright red suspenders. There were those piercing blue eyes, that face that was tough, mocking, and mesmerizing, all at once. There was the wooden slingshot in his belt, the mysterious key swinging from a chain around his neck, and of course, the black cane clutched in one hand, with its intricate gold top. From Flick's description, it seemed to Secret that he hadn't changed a bit in the past two years.

            "Heya Jacky-boy, Mouth, Mush," Spot was saying, spitshaking with each boy in turn. Finally, inevitably, his eyes found Secret. He raised his eyebrows.

            "An' who might dis beauty be?"

            _Right, as if ya ain't guessed already._

_            "Dis's Secret," Jack answered, smiling almost proudly. "Din't any o' yer 'liddle boids' tell ya dat Manhattan's got a couple newsgoils now?"_

            Spot smirked. "Shoah, dey did. Dey told me a few odda t'ings, too, includin' da fact dat it wasn't e'zactly Jack Kelly's decision fer da goils ta stay."

            Jack groaned, automatically touching the faded reminder of the bruise on his cheek. "Yeah, well, we's managed ta woik out most o' our dif'rences since den."

            "Somehow I doubt dat'll last," Spot replied, eyes hardening slightly. Only Secret heard him mutter under his breath, "'Less Flick's changed since _I met 'er." Then he seemed to remember that he had guests._

            "So, youse goin' swimmin'?" he asked.

            "'Course," Jack replied indignantly. He, Mush, and David were already headed toward the docks. Secret watched as they peeled off their suspenders and shirts and, one by one, dove into the water. Mush was the last to dive in, and before he did so, he glanced back at Secret, still standing unmoving beside Spot. Secret gave him a slight nod, and he nodded back, smiled, and splashed into the river.

            Once they were alone, removed from the teeming docks by a few feet, Spot turned to Secret. She tensed; if she heard Flick's name again, she was out of here.

            "Ya wanna borrow some clothes from one o' my newsies?" he suggested, smirking. "Or ya plannin' ta swim in dat?" He gestured at her dress.

            Relieved, Secret shook her head.

            "A couple o' da goils are back at da lodgin' house," Spot offered. "Dey'll lend ya sometin'."

            "T'anks," Secret replied, and headed toward the distant shape of the Brooklyn "Newsboys" Lodging House.

"Heya!"

            Entering the girls' bunkroom (for there were two separate rooms in the Brooklyn lodging house, unlike Manhattan), Secret was greeted by a girl with caramel-colored braids. The girl smiled cheerfully, spitting in her palm and offering it. "Da name's Mulberry. You a new goil or sometin'?"

            "Nah," Secret replied, spitting in her own hand and shaking with Mulberry. "I'se Secret, from Manhattan."

            "Oooh." Mulberry arched her eyebrows knowingly. "Yer dat friend o' Flick's."

            "Friend o' Flick's?" A head of unruly straw-colored hair poked out from under one of the bunks and spotted Secret. "Oh, hey! Hang on a second, 'kay?"

            "Dat's Broom," Mulberry explained, while the girl wriggled out from under the bunk with great effort, dragging herself to her feet. Her dress was completely coated in a thick layer of dust. Dust motes were also tangled in her hair; she seemed almost to be made of dust. In one hand she clutched, naturally, a slightly wilted broom.

            "Nice ta meet 'cha, Secret," Broom greeted, striding over to the two girls. She started to lift her palm to her mouth, then glanced at it and sneezed. "I don't really t'ink ya wanna shake dis, dough."

            Secret laughed slightly. "Dat's okay. I jist came ta see if I could borrow some boy's clothes so I could go swimmin'. It's a bit awkward in a dress."

            Mulberry nodded. "Shoah! Ya can borrow mine...we's all got a set o' boy's clothes fer swimmin'," she explained, going over to one of the bunks and beginning to search through the tangled covers.

            "Speakin o' which..." Broom perched on the bunk she'd been sweeping under and grinned. "Is Flick still dressin' like a boy?"

            "'Fraid so," Secret sighed, claiming a seat for herself on a nearby bunk.

            "Ya ain't mentioned 'er name ta Spot, have ya?" Mulberry asked anxiously.

            "'Course not," Secret replied indignantly. "She warned me 'bout dat."

            "I'll bet she did." Broom laughed aloud. "I'll neveh f'get when she came ta Brooklyn two yeahs ago fer dat big pokah game."

            "She kinda outlined what happened when she got back," Secret explained. "But she neveh really did go inta detail."

            "Oh, it was great!" Mulberry seemed to have forgotten about looking for the clothes in her eagerness to tell a good story. "Foist of all, jist her showin' up caused a sensation."

            "I'll bet," Secret chuckled, picturing her best friend...the short fiery hair, the flashing eyes, and of course, the clothes.

            "So, once ev'ryone was t'rough gawkin' at 'er an' askin' her questions, an' once she was t'rough ignorin' 'em or threatenin' ta soak 'em, we got 'round ta playin' some pokah. An', as ya can prob'ly guess if she's yer friend, she proceeded ta suck up ev'ryone else's money like some kinda whoilwind."

            "O' course," Secret muttered, rolling her eyes.

            "Well, eventu'ly," Broom took over eagerly, "ev'ryone figuahed out dat she jist wasn't gonna lose, so dey stopped challengin' 'er. An' she was gettin' ready ta take all 'er winnin's an' head back ta Harlem."

            "But at da last minute, she got one moah challenge," Secret supplied, remembering this part of the story.

            "Dat's right," Mulberry confirmed. "Spot couldn't let some thoiteen-yeah-old goil leave Brooklyn wit all 'is newsies' money. His ego'd neveh recoveh."

            "Oh, I t'ink it'd recoveh quick enough," Broom protested, eyes sparkling mischievously. "It seems kinda invincible ta me." Then she picked up the narrative. "Well, dey played, an' Spot ain't a bad playeh, but...he ain't Racetrack Higgins, an' he ain't Flick."

            "So she won," Secret encouraged. Mulberry smirked.

            "Oh, she won, a'right. Four of a kind, in Aces. I will _neveh f'get da look on Spot's face."_

            "Well," Broom continued, "dat was too much fer Spot Conlon. So he..."

            "...accused her o' cheatin'." Secret's face was hard. "Flick don't cheat."

            "Maybe she don't, but I really t'ink Spot believed she did," Mulberry sighed. "Jist couldn't accept dat she'd beaten 'im on pure talent. So he accused 'er, an' Flick..."

            "Flick," Secret predicted, "bein' Flick, flared up on 'im."

            "Dat's one way ta put it." Broom nodded grimly. "In a second she was _dis close ta him, face all red, eyes all dark, fists so tight 'er knuckles toined white, screamin' an' spittin' an practic'ly breathin' fiah."_

            "All da Brooklyn newsies was standin' 'round watchin'," Mulberry recalled aloud. "Like it was some kinda spectata sport. We'd neveh seen anytin' like it! An' let me tell ya," she added confidentially, "neidda had Spot. He was jist amazed...had no idea what 'e was gettin' 'imself inta."

            "Well, o' course," Broom interrupted, "ya's prob'ly hoid o' Spot Conlon's tempa, Secret. So as soon as 'e gets oveh 'is shock, he flares right up ta match Flick, an' da two o' dem are screamin' at each odda, buildin' up all dis angah, an' ev'ryone's jist holdin' deyre breaths, waitin' fer da foist blow ta fall, when..."

            "...when 'er friend from Harlem showed up an' practic'ly dragged 'er home," Secret finished in a loud rush.

            There was a brief pause. The two Brooklyn girls stared at Secret for a moment. Then Mulberry shrugged and nodded.

            "Yeah. Dat's what happened." She gave Secret an odd look. "Who was dat goil, anyway? Dat friend o' hers dat came an' took 'er home? It wasn't you..."

            _"Jist a friend." Secret's voice was firm and final. Briskly, she rose from the bunk and held out a hand. "Ya eveh find dose clothes fer me?"_

Night had really fallen now. The sky was a cool, shadowy blue, and a brilliant white gibbous moon glimmered from a gauzy throne of silver clouds. The moon cast a shimmering silvery track over the river. Chilled by the beauty of it all, and trying to tune out the ruckus all around her, Secret perched on the edge of the dock and slipped soundlessly into the water. She shivered with delight at the refreshing cold against her skin. Just donning Mulberry's shirt and pants, having never worn such clothing in her life, gave her an eerie and delightful feeling of being someone else for the night, someone lighthearted and rebellious. So different from quiet, slightly sarcastic, sensible Secret. **[Author's Note: That sounds like a tongue-twister! Slightly sarcastic sensible Secret...slightly sarcastic sensible Secret...lol Flare's had too much sugar!]**

            Of course, in a moment her private tranquility was surrendered to the huge crowd of Brooklyn newsies she was sharing the river with. She was quickly surrounded, and streams of nonstop chatter were aimed at her from every direction; she was admired, questioned, teased, and finally, swept up in a lawless, free-for-all game of water tag so fast she didn't even know how it had happened.

            Darting through the water, cutting across the wavering line of reflected moonbeam, Secret struggled to escape her pursuers, a tall black Brooklyn girl by the name of Bat and a sandy-haired boy called Mott. Her inky black hair fanned out on the surface of the water, lustrous in the tender moonlight, and her pale blue eyes, as bright as always, were also a great deal less icy. When Bat finally ducked underwater, popped up in front of her, and tagged her, she laughed out loud, immediately wheeling around to go after Mush. Jack and David were involved in a serious splash-fight, and Mulberry had finally come out to join the swimmers, though Broom remained at the lodging house. ("Still cleanin'," Mulberry had explained, shaking her head fondly.) Spot, to Secret's relief, was nowhere to be seen. His presence was something to be wary of, and might have spoiled her fun; and Secret could not recall having this much fun in a long time. _God, Brooklyn's so beautiful. An' da newsies are great...real friendly an' playful, not at all da gang o' hardened fightas I was expectin'. _A boy who had introduced himself as Goon, and seemed to be made entirely of bulging muscles, paddled over to the shore to exchange a few words with a tiny and apparently withdrawn newsgirl named Scrap. She giggled at whatever he'd said. _So ya can be tough as anytin', an' still make friends an' have fun. Someone oughta tell Flick. _(If she had known that while she was thinking this, Flick was hugging Race and Blink, she'd likely have passed out cold.)

            Several more rounds of water tag passed in a blur of excitement before the event Secret had been dreading occurred. Spot appeared on the docks, seemingly out of nowhere, and beckoned to her. Biting her lip, she paddled over to him, with an apologetic shrug to her fellow tag players, and an impatient nod to her worried-looking Manhattan companions to let them know she'd be all right.

            "Hey, Secret, can I tawk ta ya real quick?"

            _I take it yer gonna tawk ta me whedda I want ya to or not, so I may as well let dis convasation happen in private._

_            Reluctantly, she hauled herself out of the water and left the docks with Spot, to converse softly out of earshot of the others._

            "Listen," were Spot's first words once they were away from the docks, "I'se real sorry 'bout what happened. If yer a friend o' Flick's, den ya prob'ly knew...well, I'se sorry."

            Secret felt her whole body go rigid. She knew how her face would look now, cold and unreadable, wiped clean of every trace of emotion. "T'anks," she muttered warily, glancing wistfully over her shoulder at the water, and longing to be done with this discussion.

            "Yeah, well..." Spot actually appeared slightly uncomfortable, though that was nothing compared to what Secret was feeling. "I hoid a lot o' stuff. A lot o'...rumahs. My liddle boids tell me ev'rytin' dey heah, an' dey hoid some t'ings dat were...well, ya prob'ly know what I mean."

            _Oh God...dis ain't happenin'... "What e'zactly did ya heah?" _Cold, neutral, don't betray nuttin'...pretend yer Flick or Race, playin' pokah, don't let nuttin' show...__

_            Spot's tone seemed to take on an edge of frustration, even anger. "Look, Secret, ya know what I hoid. An' I ain't askin' ya ta tell me if it's true. Maybe ya don't even know yaself. Da t'ing is, I jist dunno what ta believe right now. An' I'se tellin' ya, so ya can tell Flick, dat if anytin' happens in Manhattan..." His eyes were very, very dangerous._

            "Like what!?" _Not good, definitely not good, I'se comin' ta da end o' my control heah..._

_            "Da** it, goil, ya know what I mean! An' deyre gonna find out soona or lateh. I can't be shoah what da truth is, an' dat's why I ain't gonna tell 'em...but dey'll find out, an' if it's true..."_

            What happened next, Secret would only remember in a blur. She was running, away from Spot, back toward the docks. He was running after her, reaching out to grab her arm. Her arm was shooting out in defense...and the next second, Spot was in the river.


	10. Chapter Ten

**That Night, ****9:35 P.M.**

"So ya really _can _fight!"

Jack's voice was filled with awe. Secret groaned.

"'Course I can fight. Din't I tell ya dat Flick taught me?"

"Any student o' Flick's coitainly oughta be able ta fight," Cowboy admitted as they turned onto Duane Street. "I jist neveh could imagine ya actually usin' dose lessons."

"Well, I _shouldn't_ o' used 'em t'night," Secret sighed. "It was stupid."

_ "Stupid!?"_ Mush was still in the shock phase. "Ya pushed Spot Conlon inta da rivah! Try _suicide,_ a'right?"

"Well, I'se still alive, ain't I?" Secret pointed out, back to her logical self.

"Jist 'cause we decided it best ta _leave_ at dat moment," Jack retorted.

The four Manhattan newsies had indeed left Brooklyn in a great hurry after Spot had come to the surface, sputtering and furious. It wasn't until they were across the bridge that Secret had realized she was still wearing Mulberry's clothes. Boy's clothes. Dripping-wet boy's clothes. Her companions were also dripping wet, but at least their attire belonged to them and was gender-appropriate.

They'd stopped on Broome Street on the way home and said good night to David, who had returned to his apartment; Jack had been distracted for a moment from his berating of Secret by the sight of Sarah waving to him from the roof. Now they had arrived at the lodging house, and Secret eyed the door with a feeling of impending doom.

"Flick's gonna kill me."

"Good fer Flick," Mush muttered unsympathetically. "An' are ya gonna tell her _why_ ya pushed Spot in da rivah? 'Cause apparently yer neveh gonna tell _us."_

"Really," Jack added, "all dese secrets are gettin' old. No pun intended."

"'All dese secrets'?" Secret repeated questioningly as they entered the "lobby" of the lodging house, and Mush grabbed the pen and began to sign in.

Jack snorted. "Oh, jist a few t'ings you an' Flick neveh quite cleahed up," he responded sarcastically. "Like why, 'till recently, da two o' youse was so closed up...barely tawkin' ta any o' us, ignorin' anyone who tried ta be friendly, Flick soakin' someone at ev'ry chance she got." Secret met his eyes with difficulty; his gaze was intense. "An' why music makes _you_ cry an' makes Flick punch people fer no reason." He took a step closer to her, and lowered his voice slightly. "An' why youse left Harlem."

_ Calm...poifect calm... _"Ya betta sign in, Cowboy," Secret informed him, her voice level. "Mush's done."

After giving Secret a long and disapproving look, Jack took her advice. Secret also signed the registration book, and the three of them climbed the steps and entered the bunkroom just in time to hear Flick's triumphant voice crowing, "Straight, in Hearts!"

Mush grinned, walking over to lean on the small table that seated a delighted Flick and a very downcast Racetrack.

"Guess youse jist finished dat pokah game I hoid about, huh, Race?"

"He's found a new way ta lose money," Blink piped up from a nearby chair.

"Yeah, speakin' o' which, how'd da race go?" Mush asked innocently.  
While Race glared at his friends, Flick glanced up anxiously at Secret.

"How was Brooklyn?" Then her eyes registered Secret's clothing, and her mouth dropped open. "_What da..."_

"I'll tell ya how Brooklyn was..." Jack began, striding over to the table.

But before he could do so, Cowboy, the girls, and the Musketeers all realized at once that they had the full attention of an entire bunkroom of boys. Secret, as usual, saw the solution.

_ "I'll _tell 'bout what happened in Brooklyn," she informed Jack, "an' youse..." She turned to Race, Blink, and Flick. "...will tell 'bout da race." She pointed toward the window. "C'mon, ev'ryone."

And with that, Flick and the Three Musketeers obediently followed Secret out onto the fire escape, leaving twenty-seven Manhattan newsboys with a great deal to ponder.

* * *

"A'right." Flick whirled on Secret and Mush the second the five newsies were settled on the edge of the fire escape. "What 'appened in Brooklyn?"

"She pushed Spot in da rivah." (_No one like Mush fer gettin' straight ta da point,_ Secret thought wryly.)

"WHAT?!?" Secret flinched. _An' dere's coitainly no one like Flick fer strong reactions._

Meanwhile, Race and Blink also appeared dumbfounded.

_ Well, now it's out. Ya's gonna hafta make up some excuse fer da Muskeeters an' den tell Flick da truth lateh._ A split second after this thought, Secret experienced a reality check. _Hang on...tell 'er da truth? TELL 'ER WHAT SPOT SAID!?_ Grisly images of what could result from this flashed through Secret's mind. _Okay, scratch dat. Da truth'd kill 'er. I mean, God, it practic'ly killed me. Time fer Plan B._

"Well, see," Secret said aloud, doing some quick thinking, "Spot knew I was yer friend, o' course, Flick...dose 'liddle boids' o' his told 'im all 'bout you an' me comin' ta Manhattan. So 'e started railin' 'bout dat pokah game two yeahs back...still t'inks ya cheated, y'know. An' I kinda lost my tempa an'...well, pushed 'im in da rivah."

Silence. Race, Mush, and Blink just looked confused. Flick was staring at Secret, eyes narrow. Secret's heart sank. _She don't believe me. 'Course she don't. She knows me too well...knows I ain't GOT a tempa ta speak of, an' dat it takes a lot moah den dat ta make me lose it._

* * *

Flick, however, made a very un-Flick-like decision: she chose to let it go.

_ Maybe she'll tell me da truth lateh. An' if not...well, if she decides ta keep 'er mouth shut, I'll neveh get 'er ta open it. Dat much I know from experience. She ain't called Secret fer nuttin'._

Racetrack broke the awkward silence. "Pokah game?" Being Racetrack, he'd managed to latch onto those two words.

Flick forced a laugh. "Yeah, ain't I eveh told ya 'bout dat?" And she launched into the story of how, as she put it, "I came _dis_ close ta soakin' Spot Conlon." When she reached the end, where a friend from Harlem came and dragged her home, she phrased it exactly as Secret had in Brooklyn earlier that night: "a friend". And the boys didn't question it.

By the time she finished, the previous tension was forgotten, and they were all laughing.

"Great story," Secret remarked sincerely; she hadn't even minded hearing it for the second time tonight. "Anyway, now youse all know why I was mad at Spot." She shot Flick a sidelong glance. Flick said nothing, though, so Secret went on talking. "Odda den Spot, dough, Brooklyn was great. Real beautiful, an' da rest o' da newsies was real fun...I wouldn't mind goin' back sometime." She rolled over to smile at Mush. Sometime during the course of Flick's story, they had all settled back to lie down on the fire escape, gazing up at the star-spangled, moon-dominated night sky.

"Well," Mush announced, "now dat we's got Brooklyn sorted out, time fer da next topic. How was da race?"

And of course, Racetrack and Flick both started talking at once, eagerly and animatedly describing the horses and their actions, from the sound of the starting gun to the moment when Scarlet Flame crossed the finish line. While they chattered, Mush, Blink, and Secret exchanged knowing glances. It was obvious that Flick had adopted Racetrack's obsession. _Pokah an' horse races,_ Secret thought lazily, smiling to herself. _I t'ought Flick an' Jack were alike...an' dey are, in a way dat makes 'em always at each odda's throats. But Flick an' Race are alike in a way dat makes 'em ideal friends._

"...so I canceled dat debt in a fit o' insanity, but den we came back an' finished our pokah game, so 'e jist ended up owin' me money anyway," Flick finished cheerfully. Race swiped at her with his cigar, leaving a thin trail of smoke. "Yeah, yeah, I'll pay ya...someday..."

"Right, like when Midnight Storm wins," Flick predicted, and the two of them laughed, remembering the little black stallion that had trailed so hopelessly behind all the others.

"Y'know, he might actually be my next pick," Race managed to say with a straight face, provoking a groan from Flick and laughter from the others.

"Hey," Blink commented, "dis's nice, y'know? Out heah, wit da wind an' da stars...an' all da odda bums inside wheah dey can't bodda us!" More laughter followed this statement.

"Hang on!" Flick yelped suddenly, voice filled with alarm. The other four newsies started slightly and looked at her quizzically. Flick laughed slightly, shaking her head. "I jist realized...we's friends, ain't we? Da five of us?"

The realization hit Secret just as hard. "God! Yer right!"

Racetrack's eyes widened. "How da heck did dat happen?"

"Yeah," Blink added wonderingly. "It seems like jist yestaday dat we was chasin' youse two all oveh da borough while youse was tryin' ta sell papes."

"An' stealin' Secret's hat, makin' 'er chase us 'till she fell in da pond," Mush added. "While you were leadin' Flick inta dat maniac's apartment, Race."

"We's come a long way, ain't we," Race marveled. "Now we's all lyin' out on a fiah escape, peacefully reminiscin'. Flick ain't even given anyone a shinah yet."

"Well, since ya reminded me..." Flick held up her fist playfully, causing everyone present to edge away from her until she lowered it and laughed.

For a while after that, they just lay there in silence, gazing up at the stars, each carried away by his or her own thoughts. Gradually, they sank so deeply into their private thoughts that all of them began to forget where they were. Minute after minute passed this way, and it was Race who finally snapped out of his own daze and broke the silence.

"A'right, guys, dis quiet's startin' ta bug me. What's ev'ryone been t'inkin' 'bout?"

His words were sufficient to awaken his friends from their stupors. They also gave Mush an interesting idea.  
"I know how we can find out," he declared.

"Find out what?" asked Race blankly.

"What ev'ryone's been t'inkin' 'bout all dis time."

"An' how's dat?" Blink demanded. Mush explained his plan.

"Each of us has got ta tell de oddas. An' youse gotta tell da truth," he added, glancing pointedly at Secret and Flick. "But da t'ing us, afta each poyson's told what he or she's been t'inkin' 'bout, none o' da oddas are allowed ta make any comments or ask 'em 'bout it. Not now or _eveh._" He nodded proudly. "Whadda ya t'ink?"

"Strange idea," Blink observed. "But it might be kinda fun. You start, Mush."

Mush blushed; apparently, he'd forgotten to take himself into consideration when he'd explained this brilliant idea of his.

"C'mon, ya gotta tell da truth, rememba," Race urged, grinning. "What've ya been t'inkin' 'bout?"

Mush sighed and rolled his eyes. "Victoria," he admitted, then flinched as the others burst into laughter. "I shoulda made a rule 'gainst laughin' too!" he moaned. Longing to end his torment, he picked one of his companions at random. "Secret, you go next."

Flick glanced at her friend. Secret was quiet for a moment. "Changes," she murmured, not looking at any of the others. "Why dey happen. An' how ya loin ta accept 'em."

This was a dramatic change from Mush's carefree daydreams about his girlfriend. The little "game" they were playing took on a new solemnity.

"Blink?" Secret asked.

"Trust," replied Kid Blink simply. He sighed and glanced at the last Musketeer. "Race?"

"Flick," said Race.

"Yeah?" said Flick.

"No, dat's what I'se been t'inkin' 'bout," Race muttered.

This was followed by the most eloquent silence yet. Flick stared openmouthed at Racetrack, and came perilously close to shattering the rule about not asking questions. She was so shocked by Racetrack's answer that it took her a few moments to realize that everyone's eyes were on her; she was the only person who had not yet confessed her thoughts.

"Flick?" Secret urged gently.

"Truth." Flick spoke so softly that the others had to lean in closer to hear her. "Truth," she repeated in a steady whisper, "an' lies. An' what happens when ya lie ta yaself so hard dat da lies gets mixed up wit da truth, an' ya don't even know what's real anymoah."

A sort of invisible current seemed to pass among the five newsies, a ripple of thought.

Secret: _Oh God...dere's moah ta dis den she's even told me..._

Mush: _When Secret pushed Spot in da rivah...dere was a lot moah ta dat den she let on...an' I t'ink it's got sometin' ta do wit Flick's troubles too..._

Blink: _If she'd jist open up like dis moah, we could reach 'er an' find out what's wrong..._

Racetrack: _I'd do anytin' ta help her find da truth she's lookin' fer, an' heal whateveh pain it causes._

But, because of the rules that Mush had invented only minutes before out of pure fun, no one voiced any of these thoughts aloud. It was Blink who spoke in the end.

"Well...dat was interestin'," he understated. He paused, then added hesitantly, "Dat was real interestin'...maybe we can try sometin' else like dis? Wheah we all gotta tell da truth 'bout sometin' an' no one else can respond?"

Only Secret and Racetrack noticed Flick stiffen.

"A'right," Mush agreed, "but no laughin' dis time."

"I have one," Secret offered quietly. Four heads turned toward her in surprise.  
"What?" asked Mush, while betrayal registered in Flick's eyes.

"Why don't we all tell our woist feah?" Secret suggested, meeting Flick's eyes squarely. The redhead blanched.

"We'll jist go real quickly," Secret added, praying that this was a good idea. "Ya gotta tell what yer most afraid of in da woild. If ya don't know, jist say da foist t'ing dat comes ta yer mind. I'll go foist." She closed her eyes and got it over with. "Loss."

Mush went next. "Goils," he admitted sulkily, and everyone had some trouble remembering the new rule about laughter.

"Not bein' trusted," said Blink. "An' not knowin' who ta trust."

"Truth," was Racetrack's response, and Flick glanced at him sharply. Why had her thought become his fear? He met her eyes.

"Yer toin, Flick," he pointed out.

_ No._

"Flick?" That was Secret.

_ I won't..._

"Ya can tell us," Mush assured her.

_ If ya knew..._

"C'mon, Flick," Blink pleaded.

Her heart was beating so fast...slamslamslam against her chest...leaping up in her throat and trying to choke her...

_ Dat night...in my hand...on da ground...it wasn't...I didn't...dey said...I hoid...I couldn't...she told me...dat night...dat night..._

_ An' anudda night...at Medda's...da music...flutes...dose memories...my fist flyin' out, an' Race standin' dere lookin' so confused..._

"Flick." That was Race again, whispering in her ear so that only she could hear. "Flick, what is it?"

The stars had turned to eyes, evil eyes, accusing eyes, burning holes through her soul. The sky was rushing down to meet her, to engulf her. The whispering of the breeze and the cries of owls and the low murmur of voices from inside the lodging house, all of it was directed at her, malicious...accusing…

"What are ya most afraid of, Flick?"

She murmured two syllables and lurched to her feet, dashing across the fire escape, wrenching open the window, disappearing into the bunkroom and leaving her answer hanging in the air, echoing in the ears of her four best friends.

"Myself."


	11. Chapter Eleven

Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies

So I don't know what's real

(So I don't know what's real and what's)

Don't know what's real and what's lies

Always confusing the thoughts in my head

So I can't trust myself anymore.

-Going Under, by Evanescence

**August 11, 1899, 1:00 A.M.**

It was getting late. Racetrack didn't know precisely how late. He didn't feel like lifting his pocket watch to the moonlit window and checking the time. In fact, he felt that he would rather not know what time it was; he didn't really want to find out how long Flick had been out on the fire escape, pacing. Back and forth...back and forth...back and forth.

            Not that he could hear her footsteps through the closed window. But he could see her, and he had been watching her for what seemed like an eternity. Again and again she passed the window, eyes lowered. In the darkness, the most visible part of her shadowy form was her hair; sometimes, when his eyelids started drooping, it was all he saw, like a lazy flame drifting through the air. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands; sometimes they were clasped behind her back, sometimes crossed over her chest, sometimes locked together in front of her, twisting and wringing brutally as if fighting some silent battle.

            There she went again. _What is she doin' out dere? What's she t'inkin'? Tryin' ta separate da truth from da lies, like she was tawkin' 'bout befoah? Or jist...broodin'? A strange weight had seemed to develop inside of Racetrack the moment he heard Flick's cryptic confession of her worst fear. Every time she passed by the window, that weight seemed to grow a bit heavier. __Whateveh it is she's tryin' ta accomplish, it ain't woikin'. She obviously ain't figuahed anytin' out yet. An' it can't be good fer her, all dat pacin', alone out dere..._

            As he pondered the situation, he couldn't help but picture Flick back at Sheepshead...had it really been earlier that very night? She'd been so happy then...so enthusiastic, so full of unrestrained energy, excitement, and affection. How...well, beautiful, really...she had looked then, blazing with that joyful inner light. He had seen that light for the first time that evening, and barely had time to savor it and marvel at it before it had gone out completely. Only to be replaced by..._this. The contrast blew his mind. _

            After agonizing all this time, Racetrack finally reached a decision. Quietly, he pushed back the covers and started to rise from his bunk.

            "Don't, Race."

            Starting, Race spun to face the bunk across from his. Secret was sitting up, shaking her head. He'd been so careful not to make any noise; how had he managed to wake her?

            Then he saw the depth of the anxiety in her eyes and knew: she had never been asleep. Like him, she had only been lying awake in bed, watching the window, waiting...waiting, he assumed, for Flick to come inside. Secret was peering at him with concern, and he realized that his own eyes must be mirrors of hers. It struck him then that he and Secret were the two people in this room who cared about Flick the most.

            "Why not?" he found himself whispering in response to Secret's order. "We can't jist let 'er do dis all night. She needs ta sleep. She has enough trouble gettin' up ta sell ev'ry mornin' as it is." Even as he spoke the words, he knew they sounded pitiful. Somehow, selling newspapers--their job, their livelihood--seemed trivial right now.

            Secret sighed. "I want 'er ta stop as much as you do, but...c'mon, Race, ya know Flick. It ain't _safe ta try an' tawk ta her when she's like dis."_

            "I know dat," Race replied impatiently, still careful to keep his voice low so as not to wake any of the others. "I figuahed someone had ta make 'er come in, dough, an' I t'ought I was da only one up. But you are too...so why don't you do it?"

            Secret frowned. "Din't I jist tell ya? It ain't safe."

            Race gaped. "But she'd neveh hit _you, _would she?"

            "She neveh has," Secret replied. "But den, I'se neveh known 'er dis...upset...befoah."

            "Upset?" Racetrack Higgins was definitely not a newsie known for losing his temper. Indeed, the only time any of the others could remember him doing so was when Jack turned scab during the strike. But now, like Secret while Spot was talking to her in Brooklyn, he felt himself reaching his limits. "Secret. She ain't 'upset'. She's depressed...furious...terrified ...confused...not ta mention violent. I'd be seriously tempted ta say she was _goin' insane._ An' _you..."  _His voice was rising, "you know why, an' _you won't tell us,_ when ya _know we only wanna help!"_

            "Racetrack!" Glancing around apprehensively at the other beds, Secret hopped to her feet, grabbed Race's sleeve, yanked him off his bunk, and dragged him over to the door. She opened it, and they ducked out into the lobby. Race shut the door behind them and turned to Secret. He was startled to see that her eyes looked moist.

            "Listen," she started, and a chill ran down his back; he had never heard her voice so cold, or so very deliberately void of emotion. "It ain't dat I don't trust ya, Race. I might tell ya, an' Mush an' Blink too, if it was sometin' simple. But it ain't. Dere are t'ings dat make it...complicated. Confusin'. So confusin' dat at dis point, I don't even _know_ da whole truth." She took a deep breath, obviously struggling to hold on to her precious semblance of calm. "What ya gotta realize is dis: dere's only one poyson dat knows da _whole_ truth 'bout dis situation."

            "Flick," Race guessed dully.

            "Uh-huh. An' I'se tried ta tawk ta her so many times ya wouldn't believe it, but she don't want no one's help. She's detoimined ta find da truth on 'er own an' deal wit it in 'er own way, an' nuttin' we say or do is gonna change 'er mind."

            "Yeah?" Race snapped. "Well, dat's fine, 'cept fer one liddle detail. Ya's obviously known Flick a lot longa den I have, Secret. So ain't ya eveh noticed dat her way o' dealin' wit t'ings when she ain't in control...an' she shoah as he** ain't in control right now...usually involves hoitin' people?"

            Secret went white. Truly white. A color that skin was never meant to be.

            "I'se noticed," she murmured almost feverishly, putting out one hand to lightly touch the wall, as if making sure it was still there. "Dat's what started it all."

            Terrified by the color of her face, Race quickly put out an arm to steady her. "God, Secret, ya okay?"

            Touching her cheek, as if guessing his reason for the question, she nodded weakly. "I'se fine. Flick, on da odda hand..."

            "Secret, please...ya may not know ev'rytin', but ya obviously know a lot 'bout why she's like dis. An' it ain't jist her...it's affectin' you too. I hoid ya cryin' yer foist two nights heah...yeah, don't look so su'prised, my bunk's right across from yers, y'know...plus dere was dat time at Medda's. Sometin' happened dat hoit da two o' youse _bad. _What..."

            "I promised Flick I wouldn't tell no one," Secret explained. "Whedda I believe dat's da best t'ing ta do or not, I promised 'er, befoah we even came heah. An' I neveh..._neveh...break promises." And her face stubbornly became the blank slate again, the closed door, that it had been the first couple days she and Flick had lived in the lodging house._

            Race argued. He pleaded. He even did a bit of angry ranting, then argued and pleaded some more. But he was trying to get a secret out of a girl named Secret, a girl whose most famous characteristic was keeping her mouth shut. Finally, he had to call a truce, and the two of them returned wearily to the bunkroom and their warm, inviting beds.

            Flick was still out on the fire escape. Still continuing her lonely, monotonous march...back and forth...back and forth. Race closed his eyes, the powerful pull of sleep overtaking him. The last thing he knew before surrendering to it was that the weight on his heart now felt like a ton of bricks, and the thought of tomorrow filled him with a terrible, helpless sense of foreboding.

**Next Morning, 6:00 A.M.**

"Up! Up! The presses are rollin'! Outta bed, boys! An' goils! Carry the banna'!"

            Secret drifted up out of dreamland to the familiar sound of Kloppman's wake-up shouts. At first she wondered why her mind still felt fuzzy, her body reluctant to leave the comfort of her bed. Then the events of the previous night flickered back into focus in her mind. No wonder she didn't feel ready to get up; she hated to think how late she'd been awake. And Flick...

            In a second, Secret was out of bed, weary bones forgotten, stepping back and peering up into the bunk above hers.

            There lay Flick, awake, eyes open and alert. They were a terrible murky blue, ringed spectacularly in huge, dark circles. Secret herself hadn't slept well the night before, and from the yawns she heard in the next bunk over, Racetrack hadn't either; but it was obvious that Flick literally hadn't slept at all.

            "Flick?" Secret spoke very calmly and carefully, as one might address a rabid animal.

            "Mornin', Secret."

            Secret stared at her friend for a moment. There were so many things she wanted to ask, to say, to do. But from the color of those eyes, she knew there was only one safe response.

            "Mornin', Flick."

            Aside from her appearance, Flick made no allusion to her ominous vigil of the previous night. She dragged herself out of bed, complaining good-naturedly, kicked a few of the boys out of the washroom, washed up, and dressed. She chatted with Snoddy and Pie Eater, argued with Jack, bantered with Mush and Blink, and even went so far as to offer to coach Tumbler in marbles sometime. This was a novelty; Flick was normally terrible with little kids, being too short-tempered to have patience with them, and tried to steer clear of them. Now, she was obviously making an effort to use the age-old deceptive tactic: _Everything's fine, just fine._

            Watching Flick grab Blink's hat and take off out of the lodging house, Secret shook her head. Even if she hadn't seen Flick out on the fire escape the night before, or the circles under her eyes this morning, and even if she hadn't known the girl for eight years, Secret wouldn't have been fooled. Flick had never been any good at lying or acting. She valued truth too much. _At least, she always did befoah...befoah dat night. Befoah da truth became 'er woist enemy._

            All the way to the distribution center, Racetrack persisted in shooting Secret sidelong glances. He was no more fooled by Flick's act than she was. And he wasn't the only one. Though they responded to her gaiety cheerfully enough, Secret caught the worried looks and grave whispers that Mush and Blink exchanged when Flick wasn't watching. They didn't know the dragon quite as well as Race and Secret did, but they too were her friends and had come to care deeply for her. They couldn't miss the false tones hidden in her words and laughter, the stiffness in her gestures, and most of all, the darkness in her eyes.

"Fifty papes, please, Trout."

            Accepting her papers from Mr. Trotwood, and ignoring the amused little shake of the head that accompanied them, Secret immediately sought out the familiar shock of red hair among the boys. There was no delaying it any longer: she had to talk to Flick. At this point she didn't care if it landed her in the hospital. The need was urgent, the place was here, the time was now.

            She found the redhead alone _(t'ank God), leaning against a nearby brick wall, under the pretense of scanning one of her papers. Taking a deep breath, Secret approached her best friend, slipping quietly over to stand beside her and gently lower her newspaper._

            "Hey."

            "Heya!" Flick replied, smiling broadly. Secret resisted the extremely unwise urge to slap her. Instead, she called upon her old technique of making her voice even, casual, controlled.

            "Ya don't look like ya slept dat good."

            Perched atop the wall much farther down, Race was scrutinizing the headlines a bit too closely, straining his ears to catch every word he could.

            Flick's frown was the briefest flicker, almost undetectable. Secret detected it. "Yeah, well. I was up pretty late. But I'se okay an' all. Feelin' fine. Great, actually." That horrendous clown-sized smile again. Secret snapped.

            "Flick, da** it, don't you try an' pull dis on me. I know ya too well, an' I'se known ya too long, so don't try an' lie ta me like dis. It's fake, it's creepy, an' it's _pointless."_

            Flick's mouth fell open. She actually took a step away from Secret. Her eyes locked onto the ground.

            "I don't need a shade o' blue ta tell me how yer feelin', Flick." Secret's voice was gentler now.

            No answer.

            "Flick. Ya gotta tell 'em. _We gotta tell 'em. It ain't fair ta dem anymoah. If dere's sometin' else involved dat even I don't know 'bout, well, dat can wait. But as fer da part we both know...well, da odda newsies care 'bout us, 'bout you, 'specially Ra...'specially da Musketeers. Deyre real worried, an' we jist can't keep it from 'em anymoah. Ya know dey jist wanna help," she added, remembering Racetrack's words._

            No answer.

            "Flick..." Secret's voice caught. "Ya know what I mean. We's gotta tell 'em 'bout Song."

            That was it. The one word, the one name, that could break through Flick's facade. Her eyes snapped up from the ground and stared into Secret's...pools of navy fire blazing into pools of ice.

"No." The word came out as a whisper. Flick was vaguely surprised by this. She'd meant to shout, but her voice wasn't cooperating. Of course, that shouldn't come as a shock. When her fists had stopped obeying her, why shouldn't her voice rebel as well?

            "But _why not!?" Secret was upset. Oh, yes, she was very upset. This saddened Flick, but also angered her. Secret had no right to be upset. __She don't undastand. She ain't da one..._

            "Listen." The words were very difficult to utter, but Flick managed to scrape them through a throat that had gone dry, a mouth that only wanted to scream. "Listen, Secret. I can't. We can't. I won't. It ain't...it's okay now. 'Bout Song, I mean...we's both okay now...ev'rytin's okay...so why would we need ta tell 'em?"

_            Fine, fine, ev'rytin's fine. Nuttin' happened. Nuttin's wrong. I won't rememba. I won't believe. It's okay. It din't happen. It neveh happened._

            "Flick..."

            "We gotta go sell now, Secret. Da Musketeers are waitin' fer us." Flick heard the menace in her own voice, the threat. It made her heart shrivel with guilt and shame, but she knew it was the only way to make her friend leave her alone. Her thoughts were in turmoil, shouting and arguing inside her head, asking questions in demanding tones and struggling to answer them.

_            It's da only way, 'cause I can't let 'er find out. Once she did, she'd wish she neveh knew. If she knew...I gotta protect 'er._

_            But who'll protect me?_

_            Protect ya from what?_

_            From da truth._

_            An' what's da truth?_

_            I don't know. Oh God, it's jist a blank...I don't know, I can't t'ink, I don't **wanna** t'ink. I jist wanna f'get._

_            Not an option._

            Secret regarded Flick in silence. There was no anger in her face anymore; only fear, concern, and hurt. The sight of it made Flick feel like the most worthless human being on the face of the earth. Then, slowly, wordlessly, Secret turned and strode over to Race, Mush, and Blink, her stack of papes tucked under her arm. Flick followed, listening to the chatter of the oblivious newsboys all around her, and to the other voices as well, those that fought for power within her mind.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**That Afternoon, 1:00 P.M. **

"Huge fact'ry fiah, Joisey boined ta da ground!"

            The headline was good improvement on the small and quickly controlled blaze in a Jersey City textiles factory. It was a clear, beautiful summer afternoon, the crowds were thick in Central Park, a band was playing merrily in the bandstand, and the papers were selling themselves. It was a good thing, too, because if she'd had to give any more effort than this, Flick knew she probably wouldn't have earned a single penny today.

            The five partners had gone back to their strategy of old, each with his or her own selling spot, scattered all over the park. There were two reasons for this. Flick did not want to be near anyone, and no one really wanted to be near Flick, though they were all worried sick by now and did want to keep an eye on her.

_            Deyre watchin' me. All o' dem. Dey ain't gotta be so subtle 'bout it. Dey must know I can see 'em, creepin 'round heah ev'ry few minutes, pretendin' ta be huntin' an elusive customa or chasin' a blown-away pape or whateveh._

            "Infoino takes da lives o' thousands! T'ank ya, ma'am."

_            Deyre worried 'bout me, huh? Fancy dat. An' what must dey t'ink o' me, wallin' 'em off like dis, closin' up an' snappin' at 'em when dey try ta help? I'se as bad as I was when we foist came heah! All I gotta do is soak 'em, an' dey'll have da old image o' me back in place. Dey'll f'get ev'rytin' dat's happened since den...hat chases...horse races...pokah games..._

            "Whole city reduced ta ashes! Jist a penny, sir."

_            'Cept dis's diff'rent from when we foist came. 'Cause it ain't 'we' anymoah. Secret prob'ly hates me now, an' I don't blame 'er. I can't believe I'se treatin' 'er like dis. My best friend. An' Song told me..._

_            NO. NO. NO. NO._

            "Rescue poisonnel soichin' fer su'vivas!"__

_            But it's a'right. It'll blow oveh. I'se jist...broodin', right now. Toughenin' up. Gettin' useta what 'appened, loinin' ta accept it. I'll be outta dis mood soon. I'll apologize ta Secret, an' Blink an' Mush...an' Race. I'll make 'em see why dey don't need ta know what happened. Why it's best jist ta f'get. An' den..._

_            Den what, Flick? _she mocked herself. _Yeh'll all live happily eveh afta?_

_            Okay, so t'ings won't be poifect. Dere'll be a crack heah an' dere. Nuttin's eveh poifect. But if dey knew...den ev'rytin' would shatta..._

_            If dey knew...but I don't know myself._

_            What happened dat night, Flick?_

_            NO. NO. NO._

            _What happened? Ya don't know yaself!_

_            It's best dat way...it's best ta block it out...ta live fereveh widdout rememberin'..._

_            But ya will rememba. 'Cause it'll come back ta haunt ya. Ya can't run from it, ya can't hide in yer new home wit yer new friends an' yer new life. Somehow, it'll catch up ta ya..._

            "Inventin' moah deaths ta put pennies in yer pockets?"

            Flick spun around so fast that she nearly fell over. The movement was reflexive; she already knew who she would see. Yes, there he stood before her...the same tiny street kid she had encountered in this very park three long days ago.

            "Ya owe me fifty cents, kid," she informed him shakily.

            "Spent it," the pickpocket replied calmly. "An' how 'bout you? Whadda you owe? An explanation? A...confession, maybe?"

            Flick stared at him. She could feel her shock rapidly being melted by the heat of her emotions, and she realized that if this kid didn't disappear very soon, she was likely to damage him severely. He seemed aware of this too, and backed away a few steps, but continued to gaze stonily at her.

            "Look, kid," Flick began in a whisper that was like a lit match being slowly lowered toward a can of kerosene. "I dunno who ya are. I'd neveh seen ya in my life befoah ya robbed me t'ree days ago. But whoeveh ya are, I strongly suggest ya 'splain why da he** yer hangin' 'round me an' askin' me strange questions. Or jist get outta heah, dat might be da smarta choice at dis point."

            At that moment, four pairs of footsteps came pounding across the grass. Four newsies appeared on the scene, clustered behind Flick like a miniature army, of which she was general.      Flick felt her heart rise to her throat. She knew one of them must have seen the kid and tipped off the others. She knew they were here to help her, to back her up, to see if she was in trouble. But for some reason, some reason she didn't quite know herself, she didn't want them here. At all.

            The young thief looked around at Racetrack, Blink, Mush, and Secret. He did seem slightly afraid, and with good reason. But he was not backing down. The exchange continued as if the newcomers were not there at all.

            "Don'cha know why I'se hangin' 'round ya, Flick? Don't tell me ya ain't guessed. Pickpockets heah a lot o' t'ings on da streets, y'know. We's almost as well informed as Spot Conlon."

_            Dis is a scrawny liddle kid, no moah den ten, maybe eleven, yeahs old, an'...what...4'9? So why am I shakin' inside?_

            "I dunno what yer tawkin' 'bout, kid, but..."

            "But I'se treadin' on dangerous ground, right? Ya ain't happy dat yer friends showed up, are ya? Don't dey know what happened, Flick...don't dey know what ya did?"

            Flick's vision had become a tunnel. A dark, narrow little tunnel. Like a tube stretching from her eye to the face of this stranger, this little boy, this random street rat, who had come to shatter her world.

            _Don't dey know what ya did?_

            "Flick?" Blink's voice.

            "Flick..." Secret.

            "Flick...?" Mush.

            "Flick...trust us." That was Racetrack.

            _Don't dey know what ya did?_

            "I din't do nuttin'..." Her voice was not her own. It was hoarse, raspy, alien.

            "Din't ya?" The boy regarded her with a look of disgust.

_            Did I? DID I!?!_

_            Dat night..._

            The child's face was all she could see, and her hearing was fading too. She had an impression that the others were speaking, not just the pickpocket, but her friends, their voices saying things to her...but she couldn't make out the words. There was one sound now, one sound that was clear as day. It was coming from the bandstand.

            Flutes. They were playing flutes. The music filled her ears, and filled her mind, and filled her up until she knew that she was drowning in it. That music which was one of the most familiar sounds in the world to her. And which now brought pain like a hundred swords being driven through her heart.

            Soft...sweet...hypnotic...

_Flutes. Flutes._

**August 3, 1899, 8:30 P.M.**

_"Ya almost done, Song? We gotta be headin' back. It's gettin' late, an we's all outta papes."_

_            "I know, Secret, I know...can't stop now dough. Da people comin' an' goin' heah love it, I'se makin' a fortune...an' I'se playin' real well t'night. Ya can't interrupt art, goil!"_

_            "Oh, you an' yer art, Song! C'mon, it's gonna be yer fault if we's late gettin' back an' we hafta sleep on da fiah escape."_

_            "Hey, I happen ta like da fiah escape, Flick. It's good fer inspiration. I can practice out dere widdout any o' youse bums tellin' me ta shuddup an' go ta sleep."_

_            "Well, dat's all very well fer an artist, but dere's some of us heah dat actually enjoy sleepin' in beds. Right, Secret?"_

_            "She is right, y'know, Song. I really don't fancy gettin' eaten alive by mosquitoes an' wakin' up wit a stiff neck."_

_            "Youse two! Ya jist can't appreciate t'ings like dis. Go on back ta yer nice warm bunks, den. I'll catch up ta youse soon, or brave da fiah escape."_

_            "Uh-huh. Nice try, Song. As if we'd leave ya alone, outside a bar in New Yawk City, afta dark."_

_            "'Scuse me, but I t'ink youse two are f'gettin' sometin'. WHO is da oldest one heah, da one dat should be lookin' afta youse, instead o' da odda way around?"_

_            "God, Song, fer da las' time..."_

_            "I know, I know! Youse can both fight an' I can't! Gimme a break fer once, a'right? Go home. Yer gonna be late. I'll jist stay a liddle while longa. Who's gonna attack a doity liddle newsgoil sittin' on da ground playin' a flute? Believe me: I'll. Be. Fine."_

_            "Song, it ain't safe..."_

_            "Ya don't know da foist t'ing 'bout defendin' yaself..."_

_            "An' I won't hafta defend myself! Secret. Flick. Listen ta me. I need dis time, a'right? I need ta do sometin' on my own fer once. I love both o' youse an' ya know it, but once in a while I gotta be alone, wit myself, an' da night, an' da music. It might not seem important ta youse, but it means a lot ta me, a'right?"_

_            "I can undastand dat, but Song..."_

_            "Dat's it. Fightin' ability aside, I got seniority. Both o' youse, back ta da lodgin' house. NOW."_

**August 11, 1899, 1:15 P.M.**

"We left 'er dere," Flick murmured feverishly. "We left 'er, it was stupid...so stupid..."

            "It's okay, Flick," Secret was saying, "we shouldn't o' done it, but she insisted...ya know dat...it's tough, but it's a'right now..."

Then the little thief's voice, cold and terrible. "Ya did moah den leave 'er."

**August 3, 1899, 9:00 P.M.**

_"What's takin' 'er so long? Da** it, why'd she hafta insist dat we leave 'er dere!? So stupid, I can't believe it, she KNOWS what all goes on in New Yawk at night! Din't she even t'ink o' us!? She musta known we'd be waitin' up! Wheah da he** is she!? Da** it, da** it, I will kill dat goil when I see 'er..."_

_            "Calm down, Flick...she's prob'ly jist woiked up a nice crowd...ya know how she gets..."_

_            "I'se gonna go bring 'er back."_

_            "Flick! Ya are NOT! I AIN'T gonna have both my best friends out dere at dis time o' night...speakin' o' stupid...c'mon, Flick, get back heah...Flick!"_

**August 11, 1899, 1:17 P.M.**

"I din't listen. I went anyway."

            "Ya were worried," Secret whispered.

            Was this true? Flick thought it was, but also..."I was mad."

**August 3, 1899, 9:10 P.M.**

_What on earth WAS taking her so long? Music! Art! 'Time alone wit myself an' da night...' Flick would show her time alone! How dare she do this, worrying her friends to death...she knew the risk, she knew they'd be worried, how dare she make them wait..._

_            Here was the street. Here was the block. Here was the bar..._

**August 11, 1899, 1:18 P.M.**

Flick swayed. "No..."

            Secret's hand was on her arm. "Flick..."

            The thief was not sympathetic to her plight. "Tell 'em," he insisted.

            "Leave 'er alone!" Race shouted.

            And in the bandstand, the flutes kept on playing...

**August 3, 1899, 9:11 P.M.**

_"Song...Song. Song! SONG!!"_

_            That night...on the ground...Flick was beside her, kneeling beside her. Song was not moving. Not moving. Not moving. Crimson stained her vest. She was not moving..._

_            And a knife...there was a knife..._

**August 11, 1899, 1:20 P.M.**

"Dat night..."

            "Yeah? Tell 'em. Tell 'em what happened."

            Blink was furious. "Get outta heah! Leave 'er alone! Ya don't know what yer tawkin' 'bout, leave 'er alone!"

            Secret was still trying to comfort her. "Flick. It's a'right. We all know what happened now. Da secret's out, da lyin' an' pretendin' is oveh. Song, our best friend, practic'ly our sista, died dat night. It was horrible, an' it'll always hoit, but it's oveh now! It's oveh!"

            Flick murmured faintly. "A knife..."

            And then the pickpocket's voice. "An' who was holdin' it?"

_            An' who was holdin' it?_

_            A knife...an' who was holdin' it?_

**Date And Time Indefinite**

She was.

_She was._

_Down on da ground...dat night...in my hand..._

In her hand...

_Song lay on da ground, an' I was mad at 'er, an' dere was blood, an' da knife was in my hand._

**August 11, 1899, 1:21 P.M.**

"I was."

            Silence.

            Absolute and utter silence. Untouched, unbroken, pure and total silence...pierced only by the low music of flutes.

            Secret felt the world slipping out from under her. "Flick," she murmured, imploring, pleading, voice high and shaky and tear-choked and desperate. "Flick...ya don't know what yer sayin'. Ya din't...ya don't know...ya don't know!"

            "It can't...ya neveh..." Mush stammered.

            "I don't believe it." Blink was shaking his head, eyes closed, face pale. "I don't..."

            Racetrack was silent. His shock and anguish were too overwhelming for words.

            "It's jist what I hoid in Harlem." The mysterious kid's voice contained no satisfaction, no triumph. Only a deep, resigned sorrow. "Dat a redheaded newsgoil wit a horrible tempa killed 'er best friend."

            Flick struck out at him blindly, not even knowing if her fist found its target. Then she turned and ran...ran from the calm and happy couples and families strolling through the park, from the children laughing and playing, from the boy who had accused her, from the faces of her friends, full of shock and terror and hatred, and from the bandstand and the relentless music of the flutes.

For a time, no one spoke. The young thief was gone as quickly as he had arrived. No one made a move to stop him. He left three boys and one girl standing devestated in the middle of Central Park, staring in the direction their red-haired friend had run, long after she had disappeared.  
            It was Secret who finally broke the silence, and then with only four faint words: "I'se goin' afta her." With that, she took off.  
            "Secret!" Mush called, starting after her, but Blink pulled him back. "Let 'er go," he whispered shakily.

            As for Racetrack, he had not so much as moved since Flick spoke those two earth-shaking words: _I was. Even now, Race did not even seem to take notice of Secret's departure, and the Musketeers watched resignedly as she vanished the same way Flick had.  
            __And then there were three. The three best friends finally managed to look at each other, each searching the others' eyes for some sign of calm, of understanding, of acceptance. But all they saw was horror, confusion, and denial.  
            "She__ didn't."  Racetrack's whisper came out low, poignant, and earnest.  
            A few seconds passed. "She...must...have," Kid Blink uttered slowly and hesitantly, as if it hurt to talk. "She...she said..."  
            "Oh, God," was all Mush could manage._

            "We...gotta go...back." Blink sounded desperate, as if reaching out for something to anchor onto and finding only air. "We's gotta..." He hesitated, then moaned softly. "We's gotta tell da oddas."

            Mush's mouth dropped open at this. He eyed Race, who looked like he was about to pass out at any moment. With one last lingering glance in the direction in which both newsgirls had run, the Three Musketeers slowly headed back to the Manhattan lodging house. The numbness of pure and all-consuming shock had not yet left them, and none knew how they were going to tell twenty-seven boys that the girl with whom they had been living for five days was a murderer.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Same Day, 4:00 P.M.**

The Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House was silent.

            No newsie in the history of New York City could remember this phenomenon ever occurring before.

            There were no card games. No dice games. There was no talking, no laughter. No teasing, paper-reading, penny-pitching, or money-counting. Only a silence, as heavy and deadly as a January snowfall, as dark and mournful as a shroud.

            It was a good thing there was no clock in the bunkroom. A clock would have ticked, and that would have been unendurable...its slow, methodical ticks filling up the silence with a cryptic reminder of the steady, relentless passage of time.

            Jack was gone. No one knew where. To search for Flick? For Secret? To run and run until he found a place that was sufficiently far away from everything else, and stand in the middle of this place and scream?

            Most of the newsies worried about Jack, worried a great deal that he had gone to find Flick. That he _would find her...and try to soak her. It was a noble goal, to be sure, but hardly a safe one. She was a murderess, after all._

            The rugrats were the most subdued. This new and terrible knowledge was a great burden to ones so young. Snipeshooter lay back listlessly on his bunk, puffing almost violently on a cigar, yet somehow ending up looking more like the child he was than he ever had before. Odds sat on the floor nearby, silently twisting a corner of the bedsheet between his fingers. Tumbler stuck close to Skittery, eyes full of a pain too great for his years. Slider and Boots had gone downstairs to be comforted by Kloppman. In a dusty corner huddled Shadow, eyes closed, head down. He was such a quiet kid that the others rarely knew what he was thinking, but the small boy seemed to be in a deep state of contemplative misery.

            As for the others, their reactions varied. Some, like Cowboy, had left the lodging house, finding the crowded bunkroom too small to contain their stormy emotions. Swifty, for example, had gone running. Pie Eater had headed for Midtown, to talk to a friend of his who lived in an orphanage there. Snitch had disappeared quickly and with little explanation; those who bothered to think about it suspected he had temporarily gone back to his old occupation. Picking pockets was the only way he knew of to let his feelings out.

            Of course, many boys still remained in the lodging house, smothered by this suffocating blanket of silence. The newsies even avoided looking at each other. Here and there, however, a few curious glances did dart toward the witnesses of this stunning revelation.

            Since the painful story had been related, Mush had not left his bunk. His head was buried in his pillow. Most of the others were fairly certain that he was or had been crying, but didn't comment, knowing their attempts at comfort would be neither welcome nor effective.

            Blink paced the bunkroom. His good eye alternated between blinking back tears and darting around the room with a sort of hopeless fury. Occasionally he kicked a bedpost or a wall.  Kid Blink wasn't the type to bottle up his feelings, and if there was anything he was known for, it was _never being in a bad mood. The combination of his whirlwind of negative emotions, and his feeble attempts at expressing them, made his friends distinctly uneasy._

            One witness was not available for glances of curiosity or unease. Racetrack hadn't said a word while Mush and Blink had choked out the strange and awful story of Flick's confession. When it was over, and when the deafening din of gasps and shouts and frenzied conversation had finally subsided, and when Jack had stormed away, Race had quietly gone out onto the fire escape, closing the window behind him. No one was foolish enough to disturb him.

On August 7, 1899, at 11:00 P.M., Racetrack Higgins had met a girl in a casino in Harlem. A girl with hair like red-hot copper and blue eyes that changed their shade to match her moods. A girl who dressed like a boy and played poker like a professional gambler and fought like nothing he had ever seen before. A girl with the temper of a wildfire, the spirit of a wild mustang, with courage and strength and wit and a blazing flame of passion that could dazzle your eyes and scorch you if you got too close. A girl whose anger seemed like it could destroy the world...and whose joy seemed capable of inspiring the whole world to burst into song and dance.

            Flick was certainly many things. Smart, tough, spunky, fiery, impulsive, quick-tempered and quite irrational at times. And dangerous? Yes, she was that as well.

            But a murderer?

            Curled up on the edge of the fire escape, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, Race stared intently at the city below him without seeing it at all. His mind was filled with images, words, and feelings conjured out of the recent past.

            Flick punching Cowboy, knocking him to the floor.

            A bunkroom full of Manhattan newsboys sporting split lips, bloody noses, and outstanding shiners.

            Flick starting forward when Jack had accused Secret and her of being spies for Queens.

            Flick looking around wildly..._murderously...when she thought one of them had stolen her money._

            Flick's eyes darkening, flashing with navy fire.

            Flick at Medda's on that rainy afternoon, her body rigid, her eyes disturbingly blank, her fist shooting out in an invisible blur of speed and connecting with his arm. (He rubbed the faded bruise ruefully at the memory.)

            Flick on the fire escape only last night, tense and reluctant, as they all urged her to confess her worst fear.

            _"What are ya most afraid of, Flick?"_

_            "Myself," _she had finally answered.

            _"Myself."_

            And finally, worst and most vivid of all, today in Central Park...Flick standing there staring without seeing any of them...the darkness of her eyes, the paleness of her face, the white-knuckle clutch of her fists, her trembling words..."A knife." The mysterious boy's question..."An' who was holdin' it?" And Flick's answer, the last two words she had spoken before vanishing from the park and from the lives of the Manhattan newsies. "I was."

            Every one of these memories felt like a blow to Race, like a knife in his own heart. After today, it seemed cruelly obvious; every event, every action, every word since Flick had arrived seemed to point in this direction. _"...killed 'er best friend..."_

_            But they were not the only memories!_

Unbidden, unwanted, uncontrolled, other words and images came bursting to the surface of his mind.

            The solemn, earnest redhead in the casino that first night, amazing and dismaying him by beating him at poker and taking every cent he owned.

            _"I'se Flick."_

The gentle, soothing voice he'd overhead those first couple nights, murmuring its words of comfort to Secret till her tears stopped.

            _"We's gonna be Manhattan newsies fer a while..."_

Flick racing out of an apartment building, cheeks flushed with exhaustion and righteous anger, blue vest flapping, tripping over a tie draped haphazardly over one shoe.

            _"It's called fun, Flick. Get useta it!"_

That promise she had made to Jack after his accusations had been withdrawn...a promise that had truly seemed to ring with sincerity, loyalty, and pride.

            _"If dere's a war, we's in. As Manhattan newsies."_

The poker game they had played, he and Flick, so late into the night. That game that had been such a turning point for their relationship, and indeed, for the girls' relationship with all of the boys. Her eyes, when she briefly raised them after a good hand, that beautiful robin's-egg blue. How she had let her guard down a little before they called it a night, lapsing into a bit of friendly banter.

_            "An' dat is my name, by da way. Flick O'Grady. Not 'dragon'."_

At Tibby's the next day...her disgust at Queens' attack on the rugrats.

            _"...soakin' liddle kids dat ain't got a chance at fightin' back. Typical."_

And of course...the last time. The last time he had seen those rock-hard defenses melt, seen through that façade of curt words and ready fists.

            The horse race. Flick leaping up from her seat and cheering. Her glowing cheeks, her light and shining eyes, her hair billowing out in the breeze, all toughness and careful reserve gone, as she was carried away by pure passion; no longer passionate fury, but passionate joy.  Joy at the victory, the triumph, of a creature as wild and powerful and free as herself.

            She'd hugged Race that night. A hug wasn't normally anything special. It wasn't a very common gesture among newsies, but not a novelty, either. Yet coming from Flick, it was astounding...and very, very precious. And though she had tried to cover it up afterwards by quickly rebuilding those stubborn walls of hers, he knew that those cheers, that hug, that pure and beautiful burning light, had been genuine.

            Those were the events Race was now mentally re-living. And what did they show? A very different Flick from the other memories, that was for sure. A Flick who was still tough, still strong and bold, but also kind, compassionate, joyful, playful and energetic and full of life. A Flick who loved poker, loved horse races, was proud of and loyal to her borough, would never hurt a little kid, a Flick who was capable of gratitude, of friendship, of love.

            _An' so dis goil...dis Flick O'Grady, dis wildfiah, da most amazin' an' confusin' poyson I'se eveh met in my life, got mad at 'er best friend...an' killed 'er. KILLED 'er._

He had only known her for five days. _Five days! So why did he feel like his heart and soul were being brutally torn apart?_

            Surely he knew Flick no better than Mush and Blink did. He'd barely spent any more time with her than they had. Just that late-night poker game, and Mush hadn't been at the race. The other two Musketeers had also been Flick's friends. They cared about her too, and about Secret. He knew that Mush, especially, cared about Secret.

            Yes, Mush and Blink had befriended the girls as well. And they were reacting to all this more strongly than any of the other newsies. Any except Racetrack.

            He knew that what he was feeling now was more powerful even than what his two best friends were feeling. _Why?_

            And what about Secret? She was innocent of any crime. Everyone realized that she'd had no idea what Flick had done, no part in it; that she had only believed that Song was murdered and Flick discovered the body. Secret had run away, gone after Flick, the killer. The whole lodging house was worried about her. Why had she barely entered Racetrack's thoughts?

            There was that face again, in his mind. The face of his friend, his companion, his rival, his...

            _Da** it, dere's no use tryin' ta label 'er. Dere's no way ta put inta woids what she became ta me durin' dese past five days. She's FLICK, dat's all. An' I care 'bout 'er. An' now I know what she did, an' ev'ryone else hates 'er, an' I STILL care 'bout her. An' I don't know why._

"Race?"

            "Go away, Kid," Race murmured without turning around.

            "Race..."

            "I said go away!"

            "Yeah, I will...jist...Race, I know yer t'inkin' 'bout...'bout _her._ I jist wanna say...ya shouldn't be, y'know? She's...y'know what she did!"

            "What dat kid claimed she did."

            "She _confessed, Race! She stood dere an' __told us dat she moidah'd dat goil!"_

            "No," Race muttered as Blink hastily retreated back in through the window. "She said she was holdin' da knife."

**August 12, 1899, 6:00 A.M. **

"Race? Race!"

            Racetrack's eyes opened slowly. "Jack?" he muttered, squinting at the figure standing beside his bunk.

            "Yeah." Cowboy's voice was grim. "Ya betta get up. We's got trouble."

            Sitting up groggily, Race stared incredulously at his friend. "What, _moah trouble?"_

            Jack's face hardened, as bitter sarcasm entered his voice. "Not dat type o' trouble. Flick din't go an' moida one o' da newsies or anytin'." Then he seemed to remember his previous train of thought. "What we's got now is trouble from Queens."

            For a few moments, Race blinked blankly. In all the turmoil over Flick, the problems they'd had with Queens newsies lately had completely fled his mind. The name of the nearby borough seemed irrelevant. Then, in a flash, the significance of it came back to him.

            _"Queens!?" Suddenly he was wide awake and on his feet, looking around wildly. Now that he had shaken off the mist of sleep, he could hear a noisy din of voices from the washroom. He groaned. "Jack, are ya tryin' ta say we's havin' a __war? NOW!?" _

            "Yep. Poifect timin', huh?"

            "Cowboy, no one can fight now! _I_ can't fight now! We's...we's all..."

            "A mess," Jack finished. "I know. An' didja t'ink, Race, dat maybe dis's e'zactly what we _need?_ We's all upset...a'right, beyond upset...we's all depressed, an' angry, an' in terrible shape, an' dere ain't nuttin' we can do 'bout it, 'cause no one's got any idea wheah Flick's gone." (Race flinched at the name.) "So maybe jist what we need is a fight, so we can take all dose feelin's out on Queens."

            "Brilliant theory," Race mumbled, reaching into the cup on his nightstand for a cigar, "but why right now?"

            "'Cause de entiah lodgin' house is surrounded by Queens newsies," Cowboy informed him gravely. "Da rugrats are stayin' in heah, o' course; Crutchy's gonna watch 'em. But if da rest o' us ain't out dere soon, I got a feelin' deyre gonna start comin' in heah."

            "Great. Dat's jist great." Clutching his cigar like a lifeline and muttering curses, Racetrack headed to the washroom to get dressed and prepare for the fight.

**Previous Night, 8:30 P.M. (Shortly after Flick ran away from Central Park)**

The East River was beautiful tonight. Of course it was. When had it ever been otherwise? Yet tonight it seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before in Flick's memory. The silver-white moonlight and heavy mists, and a mosaic of the tiny glittering reflections of the stars, turned it into a wonderland of magic and fantasy. Its beauty was so overwhelming that it made Flick want to cry. And yet it seemed to be mocking her. How could anything be beautiful in her eyes anymore? She didn't deserve beauty.

            She had come here expecting to find a reflection of her mind, her soul. Expecting something cold and harsh and threatening. Jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge into a dreamland of mist and moonlight wasn't what she'd had in mind. That was a romantic sort of death, something she neither deserved nor cared for. Flick had never been the romantic type.

            Not that any of this was relevant. She'd known long before she reached the bridge that she wouldn't actually jump. Sure, she'd told herself she was coming here to die, to punish herself, but what had she really come for? Probably just what she had found: beauty, solace, comfort.

            _Yer a coward an' a liah, Flick. An' da poyson ya lie ta da most is yaself._

Which was what she'd been doing all this time, of course...lying to herself. She thought of the Manhattan newsboys. Of course they'd assume she'd been hiding this horror from them all this time. She'd been violent, defensive, secretive...it would all seem to fit now. They'd never know that she had been concealing the truth from herself as skillfully as she had from them. They'd never know about the walls that she had rapidly built around one section of her mind on the night of August 3, 1899. They would never know how, all these days, before and after coming to Manhattan's lodging house, she had refused to speak of Song or of that night, despite the frantic pleas of a deeply worried Secret.

            _Secret..._

Flick paused in her slow, meditative walk along the riverbank, a massive shudder passing over her whole body. After eight years, Secret had become more than a friend to her, more even than a sister. It was like they had been part of a set of triplets, two-thirds of a whole.

            But the whole would never be complete again. For the final third was gone forever, thanks to Flick. And Secret, who she had thought of as her best friend since Song's death, Secret with her quiet manner and good sense, her sarcastic wit and gentle laugh, and all of her kindness and courage and loyalty...

            _If she saw me now, she'd prob'ly try ta kill me._

Flick didn't know where Secret was now. Perhaps she had gone back to the Manhattan lodging house. They knew Secret had nothing to do with the murder. Doubtless they would accept her back, and she would stay there as a newsie for years to come, recovering from her emotional wounds, surrounded by loving friends, until she was old enough to leave and make something of herself.

            Or maybe she would go to Brooklyn. If he believed her innocence in the business with Song, Spot would be sure to let her stay; she was as good as fighter as most of his newsies, girls and boys. Secret loved Brooklyn, Flick was sure of it. She could find a good life there.

            There was no need to worry about Secret. She had always been the sensible one, the one best suited to surviving, really, even if she was not the better fighter. She would have no trouble getting along without Flick.

            _An' how 'bout de oddas?_

_            Oddas? _

            And then the names and faces were there before her.

            The rugrats. They would be so confused, uncomprehending, unable to accept. Bumlets...he'd be worried about Secret. Skittery...he probably wouldn't be surprised. This would be just another tragedy for him to use to support his pessimistic outlook on life. Crutchy, Dutchy, Swifty...the quiet, cheerful, trusting ones...this would be a blow to them. Jack's face blazed up clearly in her mind, vivid and completely unwelcome. She could just hear his voice now..._"I told ya so! Neveh trusted dose goils, did I? I knew dey was trouble from da start, but did any o' youse listen ta me? No, ya ignored yer leadeh...no matta how many people Flick soaked, ya still acted like she was yer new best friend. An' now look what happened! A moiderah! I coulda toldja dis'd happen..."_

The faces and voices ran swiftly through Flick's head as she mentally assigned a reaction to each one. It wasn't long before only three faces remained.

            Kid Blink. Blonde hair, roguish eyepatch, that one blue eye always twinkling with merriment and mischief. A smile that could break hearts, a raucous and endearing laugh, boundless energy and playfulness, a perpetual good mood, always friendly and gallant and up for anything. She saw him running down the street with her hat. She heard his voice calmly explaining his worst fear. _"Not bein' trusted. An' not knowin' who ta trust."_

            Mush. Cinnamon skin, curly brown hair, brown puppy eyes. Quiet and shy, gentle, sweet, and sensitive. Girl-crazy as they came. Timidly explaining to Secret, just last night, how he was thinking of going to Brooklyn..._"Ya wanna come?"_

Of course, there was still one face left. And there it was, without any warning at all. Clearer, sharper, more vivid than any of the other faces.

            Black hair, sticking out of the front of a black newsboy cap. Brown eyes that were full of humor, and yet had a certain serious aspect peeking from their depths. A small smirk that was impudent but lighthearted, inviting you to join in the joke. A cigar sticking out of the corner of the mouth and spouting a stream of smoke.

            A deck of cards. A pair of dice. A tarnished gold-colored pocket watch.__

_            "Yer a newsie?"_

_            "Call, an' raise ya two...pair o' eights...two pair...t'ree of a kind...straight..."_

_            "Rememba, I had absolutely nuttin' ta do wit dis."_

_            "Hey, Sleepin' Beauty, I t'ink I smell smoke!"_

_            "Hey, dragon, heah's some fiah ta match yer poisonality!"_

_            "It's called fun, Flick. Get useta it."_

_            "I can prove deyre from Harlem..."_

_            "None o' us stole yer money, Flick!"_

_            "How 'bout a compromise? If yer name ain't 'dragon', mine ain't 'kid."_

_            "It shoah is good ta know she's hopeless at sometin'!"_

_            "...jist in time ta get ta da track!"_

_            "But, uh, Flick...ya wanna come again sometime?"_

_            "What are ya most afraid of, Flick?"_

_            "Leave 'er alone!"_

            By the time the memories had faded, Flick found herself standing motionless by the river, head bowed, hugging herself tightly as if to guard against some kind of approaching collision. The pain hit her like a sledge hammer. 

            _Oh, God..._

It was the one thing she had not expected, had not anticipated. The crumbling of her emotional walls, the realization of her crime, the horror and repentence, those had been inevitable. And now three people...one in particular...had to complicate things even more, had to take her pain and multiply it tenfold.

            _Yer a da** idiot, Flick. Neveh saw DIS comin', didja?_

Flick was used to anger, she was used to grief, she was used to guilt and fear and every other kind of suffering. She had learned to harden her heart against these things, to curl her emotions up into a tight frozen ball and protect herself. The only emotion she had no defense against was the one which she was experiencing now, thanks to a few poor, ragged, irrepressible Manhattan newsboys called Kid Blink, Mush Myers, and Racetrack Higgins.

            There had been one thing she'd counted on, one blessing she'd been grateful for. It made things so much easier. Flick had thought that she'd forgotten how to love. Evidently, she'd been mistaken.

            Slowly, she lowered herself to the riverbank, lay back on the grass, closed her eyes, and let the pain wash over her and consume her until it was the only thing left of the person who had once been Flick.

            She didn't cry. Flick had not shed a single tear since Song's death. That was one thing she really had forgotten.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**August 12, 1899, 6:05 A.M. **

Flick's eyes reluctantly peeled open, squinting against the harsh flood of sunlight, blinking rapidly as they struggled to adjust. She was still lying on the ground by the river. Her back, arms, legs, and every other part of her was thoroughly stiff and aching. Eyes darting around in search of what had wakened her...for sunlight was never enough to wake Flick O'Grady...they found a boy standing over her, looking extremely nervous.

            "Manhattan's got trouble," the boy announced in a rush. "Jist t'ought ya should know." And with that, yet again, the incomprehensible pickpocket was gone.

In a snug alley near Duane Street, the pretty, dark-haired girl known as Secret slept fitfully. She had spent most of the night searching for Flick, but in vain. Now her dreams were of Flick, and of Song, and of knives and betrayals and unanswered questions. Tears trailed her cheeks as she dreamed.

            Her nightmares were interrupted by a small tan hand shaking her arm. Her eyes flew open to behold a face that she would much prefer not to see, now or ever again.

            "Dere's a fight at da lodgin' house," the owner of the face whispered, then turned and took flight before his words could even register. 

Crow Johnson, eighteen-year-old leader of the Queens newsies, was not worried. His boys had been preparing for this for months. Manhattan just had too many prime selling opportunities to miss, and business in Queens really had been lousy lately. Crow had decided that it was high time they taught the now-legendary Jack Kelly and his boys a lesson. They were a tough crowd, Queens; and whatever people said about Cowboy the famous strike leader, Crow was certain that he was no Spot Conlon, and that Manhattan was a far cry from Brooklyn. This so-called war, Crow mused lazily as he leaned against the door of the Manhattan lodging house, was already won.

            What he didn't know was that he and his newsies had happened to catch Manhattan at a very, _very bad time._

            Crow was knocked sprawling to the ground when the lodging-house door flew open. Without warning, twenty-three boys came pouring out to face the improvised seige of Queens newsies. One look at the expressions on the defendants' faces told Crow that surrender was the last thing they had in mind.

Fighting was nothing new to Racetrack. You couldn't be a "street rat" in New York City for long without encountering it. Some enjoyed it, others didn't care for it so much; Race happened to be a member of the second category. But it was something you had to do if you wanted to survive, and to help your friends survive. Racetrack was decent at it, and moreover, Jack had actually been right for once; today he was in a mood for fighting.

            There was none of the boasting or taunting that usually serve as preamble to a fight. Each side knew what they were fighting for; they saw no reason to play games. Within seconds, the area in front of the lodging house was a tangle of flying fists and feet, slaps and punches and kicks, sticks and stones and even mud clots. Whatever any of them could get their hands on became a weapon. Queens and Manhattan newsies alike were slammed to the ground. Arms were twisted, eyes were blackened, noses were bloodied, cuts and bruises were distributed so fast and furiously that it would have made a spectator's head spin. Half the time, Race wasn't even aware of who he was fighting; though he did notice, with a small measure of satisfaction, when he and Blink ganged up on and thoroughly soaked the Queens boy called Muscles who had challenged them that day in Central Park.

            The chaos was such that the arrival of a newcomer on the scene went unnoticed. In fact, this newcomer probably would have remained unnoticed if she hadn't stepped into the middle of the fray and dealt a formidable Queens boy a dizzying blow.

            _"Secret!?"_

That incredulous cry was voiced by Bumlets, and it caused the head of every newsie present to turn in the appropriate direction. They were all so stunned...the Manhattan boys because Secret was back, and the Queens boys because a _girl_ had suddenly joined the fight...that for a split second, the whole thing ground to a dead halt.

            Then Crow managed to recover his wits and took a swing at Snoddy, and at the same time, Secret rolled her eyes and yelled with her usual good sense, "Dis ain't e'zactly a time fer gogglin' or askin' questions!" At this double signal, the fight resumed in full brutality, with one warrior added to the Manhattan side, who the opposing forces quickly and painfully learned was _not_ there to be snickered at.

            No one could say how long it went on. The sun rose higher and higher, inching its slow and steady way across the sky. None of the newsies took any notice. They were exhausted. They were in pain. Sweat poured down their faces, the salt getting into cuts and burning. One by one they dropped, overcome by their wounds, by their emotions, by the heat, by the hunger, by the uselessness of it all. It took a while for anyone to notice that more Manhattan newsies were on the ground than Queens newsies. And more...and more.

            In fact, Manhattan didn't even realize how badly they were losing until only a handful of them remained on their feet...Jack, the Three Musketeers, and Secret among them.

            Racetrack's fist swung out reflexively to block a blow from a pug-nosed Queens boy. His energy and bottled-up anger had been slowly draining all morning, leaving behind an empty shell. Sparing a glance for his few friends who were still fighting, it was clear to see that they were in the same situation. Manhattan hadn't done badly at all. They'd put up a much better fight than Crow had seemed to expect. But it would all be over soon enough. There were at least a dozen Queens newsies still in decent shape, and they had their opponents surrounded. With every Manhattan fighter struggling to defend himself...or herself...against two or three boys at once, it was obvious that it couldn't go on much longer. Dimly, Race wondered how much of the borough the Queens boys would take over, and whether he would ever use his left arm again, and whether Blink had just lost sight in his one good eye, and whether Specs was okay because he hadn't moved since Crow had knocked him down, and then things got really bad because Racetrack began to hallucinate. He thought he saw a fiery demon come flying out of nowhere, a slim, pale demon with blazing red hair and eyes as black as night.

The fight stopped so suddenly and so completely that it seemed as if time itself had stopped. Jack's fist actually froze halfway to Crow's stomach. This time there was no recovery of senses. There were no words, no sudden blows, to remind everyone that this was, after all, a territory war. Every pair of eyes that still possessed the faculty of sight was riveted on what appeared to be the most vicious fire-breathing dragon ever to hatch from a legend, except that it had decided to shape-shift into human form.

            Flick always felt everything to the extreme. But never before had the extreme been quite this high. Her skin was the color of fresh snow. Her cheeks were flushed with blood. And her eyes seemed to glow with an unearthly light the hue of a raven's wing. There was no derisive laughter from Queens this time. Flick's glare was quite clearly focused on Crow. 

            Crow was only human. He, like every other person present, was scared out of his wits. But he knew it would be deadly to show it, so he made a feeble attempt at bravado.

            "I din't know Manhattan was in da habit o' lettin' _goils_ do deyre fightin'," he commented, forcing a smirk.

            Flick regarded him silently for a few moments. Then she looked around at the Manhattan newsies; those still standing, and the many lying injured on the ground. Her eyes slowed down considerably as she regarded Mush and Blink. They eyed Secret for long seconds; Secret's eyes met hers, containing a desperate question. Then Flick looked away, and finally, her eyes fell on Race. When they did, Race spoke, but not to Flick; he responded calmly to Crow's taunt.

            "Manhattan newsies," Racetrack explained, "do deyre own fightin'."

            "Yeah?" Crow's smirk widened. "So dis goil's jist heah fer show?"

            "Dis goil," Race replied, "is Flick O'Grady. An' she's a Manhattan newsie. An' I do believe youse made 'er mad."

The last emotion Flick managed to register was astonishment at Racetrack's words. He knew what she had done. He knew what she was. He couldn't have said what she thought he'd said...?

            Then Crow Johnson made the biggest mistake of his life.

                        He felt cornered, he felt like prey, and this is a feeling no domineering so-called leader ever wants to feel. His instinct was to return himself to the position of predator, and so, looking around frantically for what appeared to be the most vulnerable target, he brushed past Flick and slammed his fist into the side of Secret's head.

            Secret crumpled to the ground, and Flick's world turned red.

She was moving. Turning, ducking, weaving, dodging, charging. Her fists were flying so fast, even _she_ couldn't keep track of them. Left, right, forward, back. Connecting again and again and again. She could barely make out the forms they were connecting with. Everything was blanketed in a crimson haze. Vaguely, she noticed the Manhattan boys stepping back, helping or lifting their injured friends out of the way. Their expectations hadn't been off the mark. They were out of the fight. It was Flick's fight now.

            She fought for Manhattan, for the borough that had been her home for five days...and because Racetrack said it was still her home. She fought for all the newsies of that borough, who hadn't been able to fight hard enough. She fought for Mush and Blink and for Race, because they had been her friends, and they had taught her to have fun, and she loved them. She fought for Jack, because he was arrogant and he hated her, but he knew she could fight and he used to respect her for that. She fought for Harlem, her home of ten years that she would probably never see again. She fought for Secret, her best friend, who had always stood by her no matter what, who was on the ground and wasn't moving.

            _On da ground...not movin'..._

And she fought for Song. For the girl who was once her best friend. Who was funny and playful, brave and protective, kind and gentle and smart and friendly, for Song who played the flute like a goddess and hated fights. And, thinking of Song, Flick fought for herself. She fought for the truth she had been so desperate to find, the truth that had been buried under a thousand layers of lies, the truth that _was not found yet!_

She fought until there was only one person left to fight.

            Crow looked around at the battered shapes of his newsies sprawled on the ground, rubbing bruises, clutching injured limbs, moaning, a few even crying...all of them defeated. He raised his eyes, and they were full of shock and terror.

            "Wha...what...who _are ya!? Wheah'd ya __come from!? Why da he** are ya..."_

            "He told ya my name," Flick replied through the haze, gesturing toward Racetrack. "I'se from Harlem. An' I seem ta also rememba him tellin' ya why I'se fightin'. I'se a Manhattan newsie."

            "But..." Crow was slowly backing away. "How..."

            "Ya hoit Secret." Those words burned the ears they were meant for like the rays of the sun at very close quarters, as Flick took a large step forward for every small step Crow took backward. "Ya hoit all my friends, actu'lly," she continued. She was standing right in front of him now, so close she could touch him without reaching. Wildly, he turned to run, and found a crowd of Manhattan newsboys, ragged and battered but determined, barring his way. Mush stood slightly behind the others, gently holding the unconscious Secret. Flick was still talking, although it became more difficult as the red haze grew thicker. "Ya hoit ev'ryone I care 'bout. Comin' ta Manhattan in da foist place was a mistake. Yer second mistake was dis whole so-called 'war'. But yer thoid was da woist o' all. Ya should neveh, _eveh_ have hoit Secret."

            And as she finished speaking, the scene she was referring to replayed in her mind: this boy's fist shooting out, hitting Secret, Secret falling to the ground.

            Except the image changed.

            Suddenly the attacker was someone else. Not this Queens newsie named Crow. Someone taller, older, someone she didn't know. The fist was shooting out, except it wasn't a fist. It was a knife. The moonlight glinted off the silver blade, and a figure fell, and the figure was her best friend. Not Secret...her best friend of old. Long blonde hair, navy dress, and, falling from the now-limp hands, a wooden flute...

            _"A knife."_

_            "An' who was holdin' it?"_

_            "I was."_

And so she was. _But it was another night! _Another time, another place, another event altogether. She was holding the knife, and the knife was going into someone..._but the someone wasn't Song! _

            _"Truth. An' lies. An' what happens when ya lie ta yaself so hard dat da lies get mixed up wit da truth, an' ya don't even know what's real anymoah."_

These were the words that Flick flashed back on before the flashbacks stopped. The red haze cleared. Flick was there, outside the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, surrounded by many injured people who were watching and waiting to see what she would do next, and Crow was standing in front of her, and he had hurt Secret.

            She would not fight blindly anymore. She would not hit without looking, she would not hurt without thinking. Not now. Now she knew exactly what she was doing.

            "I know what I'se doin'!" Flick screamed aloud, hoping the entire world heard her, and finally losing any semblance of sanity, Crow made a last hopeless break for it. Before he could even escape her hitting range and force her to chase him, Flick had knocked the leader of Queens senseless.

            The moment Crow hit the ground, Flick turned and ran. She ran away from the lodging house, from her friends, from the scene of the fight, and from the truth she had worked so hard to uncover. As she ran, she felt those walls rapidly building up again around her mind, that haze quickly returning to frantically block out everything within her memory that she had reached for, had tried to uncover, to reclaim, to reveal. For a minute or two she had almost grasped that elusive truth, but now it was slipping away again, and she knew that if she lost it this time, she would never be able to find it again.

            Did she want to? She didn't know. All she knew was the pounding of her feet, and the sweat on her face, and the aching of her fist, and of course, her destination.

It had happened so fast. The dragon's return. Her...rampage...on the Queens boys. Her words to Crow, and then her fist knocking him out as if he was no more than a rag doll.

            The fight was won. The Manhattan newsies were the victors. But it had happened so fast, and so strangely, that it was rather difficult to understand, much less accept. Mush hurried into the lodging house with Secret in his arms, but most of the others, those still on their feet and those on the ground, remained riveted in place, wide-eyed or open-mouthed or both, struggling to interpret everything that had just occurred.

            Not Racetrack.

            _Ya can run away again if ya want, Flick, but DIS time, I ain't jist watchin' ya go._

Without another moment of thought, Race took off after her.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Without the mask,

Where will you hide?

Can't find yourself

Lost in your lie

-Everybody's Fool, by Evanescence

_Lovely. I got woken up by dat crazy liddle thief, won a territory fight fer Manhattan, an' now I'se right back wheah I started._

Pulling off her shoes and dangling her feet in the cool river, Flick concentrated very hard on not thinking. On filling her mind with nothingness, with blankness, and keeping everything out. Things were much too confusing in there, in her mind. Much too cluttered and chaotic. Better to stay away from that turmoil of conflicting thoughts and memories, to keep it away from her; better to forget about the truth and accept the lie, no matter how terrible that lie might be.

            Footsteps interrupted her meditation on nothingness. She turned her head sharply, not wanting the mysterious kid to sneak up on her again; but it was not the mysterious kid at all. Flick turned back to the river.

            "Go away," she advised curtly.

            Ignoring this order, Racetrack quietly seated himself beside her. Flick regarded him for a time. His hat was on crooked and the sun glinted on his black hair. One hand was in his pocket, fiddling restlessly with a pair of rattling dice. _Must be outta cigars. He was looking straight at her with those familiar brown eyes, for once not sparkling with humor, but solemn, and hopeful. She sighed. Apparently it was very difficult to be mad at him._

            "Whadda ya want, Race?"

            "I want ya ta tell me what happened da night Song died."

             Flick jerked around to face him again, stunned. Of course, that was what she'd expected him to ask, but she had not expected him to ask it quite so bluntly.

            "I t'ink," she replied slowly, carefully maintaining that all-important blankness of her mind, "dat ya loined all ya need ta know 'bout dat yestaday in Central Park."

            "I din't loin anytin' den," Race informed her. "None o' us did. Dat kid came outta nowheah an' started accusin' ya, an' ya were confused an' scared...a'right, _confused, den," he amended upon seeing her expression, though his tone was mildly exasperated. "Anyway, it was jist like when ya hit me dat day at Medda's...yeah, yeah, I know yer sorry. Ya din't know what ya was doin' den, an' in da park yestaday, ya din't know what ya was sayin'. Ya jist kinda...babbled."_

            "Oh, is dat it?" Flick snapped. "Ya want it spelled out fer ya, Racetrack? A'right, heah ya go: _I killed my best friend. Her name was Song, an' I was mad at 'er. I moidah'd 'er. I stabbed 'er wit a knife. Is dat cleah enough fer ya!?"_

            She was verging on hysterical, and fully expected Race to back off. To her amazement, he remained perfectly composed. "No, it ain't good enough," he said. "'Cause it ain't true."

            Flick gaped. _"What?"_

            "It ain't true," Race repeated firmly. "Ya didn't kill Song."

            Those metaphorical walls were becoming dangerously shaky. "I...what da he** are ya tawkin' 'bout, Race? Ya know I did. I'se _tellin'_ ya I did! A moiderah confesses ta ya, an' ya tell 'er she _didn't do it!?"_

            "Ya ain't a moiderah," Racetrack insisted.

            "An' you'd know betta den _I would?"_

            "Maybe so. Maybe ya t'ink ya did it 'cause ya won't let yaself rememba what really happened."

            "Why would I _want ta rememba!?"_

            "'Cause maybe da truth's a lot betta den dis lie yer tryin' so hard ta believe, an' ta make ev'ryone else believe."

            "Why d'ya say dat?" Flick demanded. "Why can't ya jist accept da fact dat I'se an evil, dangerous, heartless killa? Why can't ya jist go ahead an' hate me an' leave me alone!?"

            "I dunno!" Racetrack finally lost his cool. His voice rose, and his eyes were bright with anger and hurt. "I dunno why, Flick, but I can't, 'kay? I'se sorry I can't, 'cause it's obviously what ya want, but fer some reason dat _I coitainly can't guess, I happen ta care 'bout ya enough ta try an' find out da truth!"_

            "I'se told ya da truth!" Flick was shouting now. _"I'se told ya!"_

            "No ya ain't," Race protested, "'cause ya don't know da truth yaself! If ya'd jist let yaself inta yer own mind an' rememba what happened, _really rememba, ya'd know ya neveh hoit Song at all!"_

            _"How would you know?"_

            "I jist _know, a'right?" Racetrack's glare almost matched Flick's now. "Look, I know ya, Flick. True, I jist met ya 'bout a week ago, but apparently I know ya betta den ya know yaself. Ya gotta admit dat durin' da time ya lived at da lodgin' house, I saw at ya yer absolutely best an' yer absolutely woist. An' I'se tellin' ya: ya neveh killed yer best friend."_

            Just like that. As if it were that simple.

            _But it ain't dat simple. I was holdin' da knife. _The image surfaced in her mind again: her own hand, clutching the coarse wooden handle of a sharp, gleaming steel blade. She could feel that knife in her hand now, feel its weight, and the rough splinters digging into her palm. She could feel the knife meeting flesh, plunging...the rest was obscured by that red haze.

            It had happened. She was a murderer. Nothing could change that. And now a small, gambling, wisecracking Manhattan newsboy named Racetrack Higgins was trying to make her re-live the greatest horror of her life.

            "Race..." She struggled, struggled, struggled, to keep back the raging fire inside her. _"Get outta heah," she hissed through clenched teeth._

            "No," was the response.

            The fire won. Flick leapt to her feet, fists clenched and eyes once again the color of ink. "Racetrack, if ya don't get outta heah dis instant, I'se gonna soak ya!"

            "Den go ahead!" Race rose as well. "Go ahead, an' see wheah it gets ya! 'Cause if soakin' people's always gonna be yer reaction wheneveh yer scared, yer neveh gonna be able ta face what it is dat scares ya!"

            "I _ain't scared!" Flick protested fiercely, and if she hadn't been fifteen years old, furious, and an amazingly skilled fighter, she would have sounded like a sullen six-year-old._

            "Yes, ya are," Race corrected. "Why else wouldja be holdin' onta dis lie 'bout you killin' Song, even dough it's so horrible? Ya won't let go of it an' soich fer da truth, 'cause yer afraid o' what ya might find!"

            That was the last straw. Flick's walls crumbled.

            Before she even knew what was happening, she was on the ground again, and Race was crouching beside her. "Flick," she heard him whisper, though his voice sounded far away. "Flick...tell me...please...I know ya don't wanna...ya can soak me aftawards, 'kay? But ya gotta tell someone, 'cause ya gotta find da truth fer yaself...ya can't jist keep it inside..."

            "Dat night..." Flick managed.

            "Yeah?" the distant voice urged gently.

            Flick took a deep breath. Slowly, she let it out, trying to calm herself, trying to sort through all the mismatched thoughts that were swirling and buzzing and clamoring inside of her, demanding to be let out. She spoke slowly, carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing again, to get mixed up, to be misunderstood and to misunderstand herself, as she had in Central Park the day before.

            "It was August thoid. Nighttime. Secret an' Song an' me had been sellin' papes togedda in Harlem, like always. Den Song finished sellin' an' sat outside a bar ta play 'er flute. Song was a...a part-time musician, part-time newsie." Flick actually smiled slightly, remembering how her friend had first introduced herself. The smile faded as she continued. "She was playin' 'er flute, an' doin' real well. She sounded great, an' all da people comin' an' goin' at da bar loved it. She was makin' plenty o' money an' really havin' fun." Now Flick's forehead creased into a frown. Her eyes closed tightly. "She din't wanna stop."

            "It's okay..." That faraway voice again. "It's okay, Flick, jist tell me what happened..."

            "Me an' Secret...argued...wit 'er." The words weren't flowing as easily now. Speech was becoming painful. "We told 'er dat we had ta get back ta da lodgin' house. We din't wanna be late an' hafta sleep on da fiah escape. She told us..." Flick's breath caught in her throat._ No...I **ain't stoppin' now. **_Resolutely, she forced the breath past her lips and continued. "She told us ta...ta go back widdout 'er. Dat she'd jist play a liddle longa an' den come home. Dat she'd be fine." Flick's eyes flew open, but they didn't appear to be seeing Racetrack. They were staring down a tunnel in time, straight into the recent past. "We din't wanna leave 'er! We told 'er it wasn't safe! We _told 'er..."_

            "But she wouldn't listen?" Race predicted softly.

            "She made us go back...she _made us. She wouldn't come. We begged 'er...she wouldn't come."_

            "So ya went back..."

            "But she didn't. She was out too late. We was waitin' up fer her. She din't come back...da lodgin' house was locked...it was too late...we was so worried...it was _stupid o' her, makin' us leave 'er alone like dat. I...I was __so..." She drew a ragged breath. __"...mad." She gulped. "I coulda killed 'er."_

            "But ya _didn't."_

            "I went out afta her. Secret tried ta stop me, o' course, but I went. I left da lodgin' house. I walked down da street...down da next street...t'rough an alley...I walked..." By now she had to consciously force out every word. "I walked...ta da bar. An' I saw...I saw..."

            The sentence was interrupted by a sharp gasp. Flick buried her head in her arms, shaking it vigorously. Alarmed, Race drew closer, then hesitantly put out one hand and touched her arm. He expected her to lash out at him. He was astounded when she took his hand and squeezed it so hard he was afraid it would pop off, as if it was the only thing anchoring her to the present time and place. This seemed to give her some sort of comfort or strength, and in a trembling voice, she resumed her narrative.

            "I saw Song...an' dis...man. A young man...in ragged clothes, wit a moustache, an' he smelled like beer...I'd neveh seen 'im befoah. He...had..."

            "A knife," Race finished sadly, and Flick nodded slightly.

            "He...he..." Her head jerked up, her eyes suddenly appearing to snap back into focus. "Ya know what happened!" she cried angrily, releasing his hand as if it had just become white-hot. This at least was rather a relief; Racetrack rubbed his throbbing fingers and nodded. "I know...ya don't hafta say dat part."

            "She din't know how ta fight," Flick whispered numbly. "I tried an' _tried ta teach 'er all dose yeahs, but she jist wouldn't loin. She hated fights."_

            "It ain't yer fault, Flick. It ain't hers, eidda. But dat ain't da end, is it?"

            Slowly, Flick shook her head, propping her elbows up on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. She closed her eyes again, and spoke hesitantly but precisely.

            "Da man...da knife...ya know what 'e did," she murmured. "An' den he ran away, an' I...ran ta Song. She saw me. I was all...numb. In shock, I guess. I din't cry or nuttin'. I jist sat beside 'er an' held 'er hand. I was gonna go fer help, or try an' get 'er back ta da lodgin' house. But she told me not ta. I'd o' done it anyway, but she was tryin' ta tawk ta me...sayin'..."

            "Ya don't hafta..."

            "Yeah, I do. She told me dat man came outta da bar an' saw her. He recognized 'er. Song useta go ta casinos sometimes, ya see, like me. She's da one dat taught me pokah. Da guy rememba'd her. He gambled wit 'er at a casino once an' beat 'er, but 'e cheated. Song knew it an' she wouldn't pay 'im. She ran away from da casino, came home an' told me an' Secret 'bout it. She hadn't seem 'im since, but 'e recognized her dat night. He was drunk. He had da knife. She'd o' paid 'im den, o' course, but he din't give 'er a chance...he jist..."

            "I know," Race whispered, "I know."

            "So she told me all dat: who 'e was an' why he did it. She told me..." Flick's voice was growing thick and husky. "She told me...dat I should keep sellin' papes...I was good at it...dat she was proud o' me. She told me I was 'er best friend, an' she was sorry she could neveh teach me anytin' moah useful den headlines an' pokah. She told me ta look afta myself, dat I was gonna be someone great someday." There was no doubt about it. It was against all of Flick's principles, against all of Racetrack's knowledge of her personality, but it couldn't be denied; her eyes were filling. "She gave me a couple t'ings...her flute an' 'er deck o' cards. I neveh could loin ta play dat flute..." With every sentence now, Flick's voice grew softer, as if it was going to fade away altogether. "She told me..." The first tear spilled over and trailed, warm and salty and sparkling, down her cheek. "...ta take care o' Secret."

            "Flick..." Racetrack's voice caught. He put his arm around her, and she didn't protest. "I'se so sorry..."

            "I know..." _But da story ain't oveh. An' I'se gotta finish it, no matta what. No toinin' back now. "I was holdin' da knife," she explained in a rush._

            "Yeah...when was dat?"

            "Dat ain't da place ta start...I'se gotta back up." She hesitated a moment before resuming. "Afta Song...well, I went fer help. I found a couple bulls on patrol. Dey came back wit me an' found Song. Dey wasn't so bad, fer bulls. Dey believed what I told 'em. Dey said dey'd investigate an' try ta find da man dat did it. An' dey...took Song...an' got a funeral arranged for 'er."

            Race nodded encouragingly.

            "But when...when I went back ta da lodgin' house, an' had ta tell Secret an' all da Harlem boys...I was a disasta. I couldn't tawk, couldn't t'ink. I could barely walk, I could barely breathe...couldn't even cry. Couldn't do anytin'. I felt like I jist got killed along wit Song. I had ta tell 'em, o' course, but when I finally managed ta tawk, I din't really explain right." She shook her head. "All dey could get outta me was dat Song was moida'd."

            "So dat's why Secret din't know," Race whispered, understanding. "Dat's why she din't really know da details o' what happened dat night. Dat's why she said only you knew da whole truth."

            Flick nodded. "Song's funeral was da next day. We all went, all da Harlem newsies. We was all a mess, but o' course, Secret an' me was da woist. We couldn't bear ta go back ta da lodgin' house afta dat. We got a room in a boardin' house neahby, but we couldn't afford ta stay dere fer long. Dat night..."

            "Flick, ya don't hafta..."

            "Yeah, I do. Dat night, I went fer a walk afta Secret an' all da odda boardehs was asleep. Couldn't stay in dat liddle room...I was..._feelin' _too much...y'know?"

            Race thought of how he had felt when he had believed Flick to be a murderer. "I know," he assured her.

            "So I went fer a walk, an' somehow I ended up back on dat same street. Da street wit da bar wheah...wheah Song was killed." Her face hardened. "An' he was dere. Outside da bar. Drunk again. Waitin'. He had da knife. He recognized me. He knew I was da only one dat witnessed what 'e did."

            "Oh, God," Race murmured.

            "He tried ta attack me, o' course. He din't know..."

            "Dat you could fight. Dat you could fight back, da way Song couldn't."

            "Right. In da end...I mean...he dropped it. Da knife. I picked it up, an' he jist kinda...charged at me." She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as tiny droplets ran from her eyes like rain. "I din't mean ta...I pulled da knife away, but it was too late...I neveh meant..."

            "He _desoived it!"_

            "I won't deny _dat."_

            "Da bulls?"

            "Dey knew 'e was drunk. An' it was his knife. Dey figuahed 'e killed 'imself, or got inta a fight wit some odda guy from da bar."

            "Secret?"

            "She neveh knew. T'ought I jist came back ta da boardin' house from a late walk. We stayed at da boardin' house a couple moah nights, sellin' papes, buyin' food, su'vivin'."

            "An' den..."

            "An' den," said Flick, "we went ta da same casino wheah Song played da game dat cost 'er her life. We sat at a corna table, an' I watched all da pokah games while Secret napped. An' den I spotted one kid who played betta den anyone I'd eveh met in my life. So I challenged 'im to a game, an' realized he was a newsie, an ast 'im wheah 'e sold, an' in my old habit o' makin decisions widdout t'inkin', I decided it was time fer me an' Secret ta start a new life."

            "An' heah ya are," Racetrack marvelled. "An' now ya know da truth."

            "Guess so," Flick agreed calmly. And with that, she buried her face in her friend's shoulder, and he held her while she sobbed as if she would never stop.

**That Night, 8:00 P.M.**

Doubling over, Flick's body shook with a few racking coughs. Sitting up carefully, she slowly inhaled, then exhaled experimentally. Her throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper, and every breath was painful, but at least she found she _could_  breathe again. She had finally stopped crying; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that her tears had stopped flowing. She seemed to have used them all up. Now she just felt very, very empty; like everything inside her was a big, cold, dark hole, except her heart, which seemed to have been squeezed until it nearly burst, then torn and twisted until it was unrecognizable.

            "Ya okay?" Race asked hesitantly.

            The response was a short, sarcastic laugh. Racetrack sighed.

            "A'right, not okay, but alive? I was afraid ya was gonna flood da rivah dere."

            Swiping one hand across her face in a vain effort to dry it, Flick smacked Race lightly with the other hand. They both realized that they were trying, with the taunting and smacking, to reclaim some semblance of their old relationship, prior to Flick's emotional breakdown. They also both knew that, considering the tears that liberally streaked Flick's face, and the fact that Race hadn't exactly remained dry-eyed himself, the effort was rather hopeless.

            As Flick frantically rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, having very little effect, Race finally noticed her plight. He fished hopefully into his pocket for a handkerchief. But when he pulled his hand out, he found it contained only the pair of dice he'd been rattling around earlier. At the sight of the cheap wooden dice and the dismayed expression on Racetrack's face, Flick had to laugh slightly. Shaking her head, she extended her hand. Race, puzzled, eyed it suspiciously, but she didn't withdraw it. Finally, questioningly, he dumped the dice into it. This seemed to be what she'd been waiting for. Flick's fingers closed over them, and she tucked them into her pocket. Acting as if this was a completely normal procedure, she turned toward the river, splashed some cold water on her face, and went back to her clean-up efforts. Race deemed it best not to comment.

            After a while, Flick realized her face was about as clean and dry as it was going to get under the present circumstances, and she returned to her former position: knees drawn up, elbows on knees, chin in hands. Her companion assumed an identical posture, and they sat in silence for a few moments. Both of them needed time to sort through Flick's story in their minds, getting used to it and accepting it as truth. Flick also needed the time to get used to breathing. Her lungs were screaming for air, but her throat was screaming with the effort of taking it in. _I neveh woulda believed anyone could cry dat hard. Or fer dat long!_

Out of the corner of her eye, Flick watched Racetrack's hands plunge back into his pockets, then slip out again, locking together and wringing restlessly. A smile flashed briefly across her face. She knew he was itching for a cigar.

            "Hate ta tell ya, but Snipes prob'ly smoked 'em all by now," she informed him.

            His face fell at this, and Flick went back to concentrating on her throat, and on her stomach, which she felt had just been vigorously scraped by something mercilessly rough. Horrified, she wondered if she was going to be sick. _Don't ya dare, ya stupid body. Jist concentrate on breathin' right now, got it?_

The silence returned and lasted longer this time. Racetrack finally broke it, smiling  nervously as he he remembered his earlier words. "Ya plannin' ta soak me now?"

            Flick managed a half-laugh at this before it turned into a weak cough. She groaned. "Betta take a rain check on dat. Ain't got da ene'gy."

            Race quirked an eyebrow. "Guess I'll hafta carry ya back ta da lodgin' house, den."

            Flick snorted. "I'd like ta see ya try. Yer 'bout t'ree inches shorter'n me."

            "I resent dat." Wincing, Race forced himself to his feet. He'd completely forgotten that practically every inch of him was covered in cuts and bruises courtesy of Crow and his gang. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He attempted to bend it a little and succeeded, albeit painfully, so he supposed it wasn't broken. Shaking his head, he offered his right hand to Flick. "C'mon, we best be gettin' back. Dey'll t'ink ya killed me."

            The redhead stared at him. "Dat was _not funny."  _Ignoring his hand, she pushed off of her knees and creaked gracelessly to a standing position. Determinedly, the two started off in the direction of the Newsboys Lodging House. Stares at the disheveled pair from numerous passersby were deflected by Flick's trademark glare.

            "Yer hat's on crooked," Race informed her at one point.

            "'Least I don't look like I was jist run oveh by a carriage," she countered glibly.

            "Yer also covah'd in grass stains."

            "So are you, in case ya din't notice."

            "An' yer face's da coloh of a tomato."

            "Don't push yer luck, kid."

            "I t'ought we made a deal on da whole 'kid' issue...dragon."

            "Ya realize yer baitin' a moiderah heah?"

            "It ain't moidah when ya kill someone dat shoulda died by law anyway. An' killed 'im by _accident, no less."_

            "Yeah, well, I t'ink dis fist might _accidentally_ connect wit yer head in a minute."

            "Den ya'd o' lost yer only woithy pokah opponent."

            "Didja say _woithy?"_

            Their conversation continued like this all the way back to the lodging house, with Race mouthing off and Flick issuing death threats. They had just gone through a crisis during which both had been forced to go against many of their usual principles, and now they needed to reclaim their rightful personalities. They did not speak at all of anything that had taken place by the river. It wasn't necessary. Together, in times to come, they would discuss it. For now, it was enough to understand, and to accept.

            When they reached their destination, both were relieved to find it void of any lingering Queens newsies. They wondered vaguely how the boys had managed to vacate the area when most of them had been wounded at best, and several unconscious; but it wasn't a matter to dwell on. They climbed the steps to the door, Race pushed it open, and the two friends proceeded into the lobby, automatically signing the registration book out of habit. Kloppman was behind his desk, but he only greeted them both and smiled warmly...making it clear that, somehow, he understood the situation at a glance. _Must be one o' dose wise old man t'ings,_ Race decided as they approached the door to the bunkroom. Then he turned to Flick.

            "Ya want me ta tell 'em?"

            Flick rolled her eyes. "No, I wanna repeat da scene by da rivah in front o' de entiah lodgin' house." She glanced sharply at him. "Keep it short, dough, a'right?"

            Race nodded, understanding. Flick had told him a great deal more than was necessary for him to hear, because it had been necessary for her to say.

            "How 'bout Secret, dough? Are ya gonna tell her ev'rytin'?"

            Flick nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, she desoives ta know...hang on..." Her eyes widened. "Secret!"

            The memory struck Race at the same time it struck Flick: Crow punching Secret, knocking her out. Without any further delay, they flung the door open together and charged into the bunkroom.

            "Secret!" The dark-haired girl was sitting up in her bunk. In an instant, Flick was beside the bunk with her arms around her best friend. "Ya okay!?"

            "I'se fine," was Secret's soft response as she returned Flick's hug.

            Of course, the reaction to this dramatic arrival was an instant uproar. Flick and Race were quickly surrounded by all the newsboys in the lodging house; or at least, all of those who could walk. Specs and Itey and a few others were currently limited to their bunks by their injuries, but the rest, plastered in bandages or sporting makeshift slings, holding bloody cloths or packs of ice to faces and limbs, nevertheless managed to create a din that nearly blew the roof off the lodging house.

            _"FLICK?!?"_

"What da...!?"

            "Race...?"

            "Ya okay?"

            "What's goin' on?"

            "What da he** is _she doin' back heah?"_

            "Shut up! She won da war fer us!"

            "But I t'ought..."  
            "Race, what's goin' on!?"

            "Wheah have youse two _been!?"_

"Did she or din't she..."

            "Flick, didja...I mean, we t'ought..."

            "Wheah've ya been?"

            _"WHAT DA HE** IS GOIN' ON?!"_

That was Jack, of course, and it was enough to silence most of the voices and freeze most of the movement. That gave two newsies a chance to finally shove their way through the crowd and throw their arms around Flick.

            Flick smiled, putting one arm around Blink and the other around Mush, and squeezing them both affectionately. She realized that they, at least, only needed the details filled in. They were already certain of her innocence.

            Others, however, felt quite differently. The look Jack was giving Flick could torture the soul of a lesser person to her dying day.

            Flick didn't even have the energy to combat it with a look of her own. She gently disentangled herself from Mush and Blink, and turned to face the bunk again. Secret stood slowly, still holding a cloth full of ice cubes to the egg-shaped lump on her head, and without a word, the two girls crossed the room. The crowd parted easily, as it always seemed to do for them. Secret pushed open the window, and the girls climbed out, Flick shutting their portal behind them. The boys all watched mutely as they went to perch side by side on the edge of the fire escape, already deep in conversation.

            "What...but...I...how...dey...why..."

            Through his physical and emotional exhaustion, Race felt a flicker of amusement. Cowboy was as speechless as he'd been the night Flick and Secret first arrived.

            "Look," he explained wearily to the room full of boys, all but collapsing onto his bunk, "Flick din't do it, 'kay? She din't kill Song, she's innocent; it was all a huge mistake. She jist 'splained it all ta me down by da rivah, an' now she's gotta tawk ta Secret, so I'll hafta 'splain ta youse guys. Jist...will youse all get back ta yer bunks or whateveh? It's kinda hard ta tawk wit all dese people starin' at me."

            Hurriedly, the newsies obeyed, except for Mush, who was considerate enough to notice his friend's arm and various other afflictments, and go to Kloppman for some bandages and medicine. Race called a weak "t'anks" after him. Scanning the bunkroom and the expectant faces of his friends, he found himself meeting Jack's openly hostile gaze. That, added to the exhaustion and pain, nearly caused him to snap. He didn't have to tell the whole harrowing truth, not now; he'd been through enough today. All he wanted to do was sleep...

            But a picture popped into his mind, a picture of a girl with blazing red hair and tear-filled black eyes, with the strength to tell him her entire heartbreaking story, even after it became a trial just to breathe. _He_ only had to tell a very condensed version, with a lot less emotion, and _he hadn't even been there to witness all those events. It wasn't _his_ best friend of ten years who had been murdered._

            Mush returned with the necessary items from Kloppman's first-aid kit, and Race took a deep breath and began the story.

"Secret, I din't..."

            Those were the first three words out of Flick's mouth, before they even sat down on the fire escape. Secret silenced them with a raised finger. Then she rested her hands on Flick's shoulders and locked eyes with her.

            "Flick," she murmured seriously, "didja really t'ink dat I _eveh,_ fer one moment, believed dat ya killed Song?"

            Flick's eyes widened slightly. "Ya mean..."

            "Ya knew I'd hoid da rumahs back in Harlem," Secret pointed out, puzzled, "an' dat I ignored 'em."

            "But when I actually confessed..."

            "Some confession," Secret replied dismissively, lowering her hands to her lap. "Ya wasn't in yer right mind an' I knew it, Flick. I'se hoit. We's been friends dis long an' ya still don't realize how well I know ya?" Secret sighed. "An' fer God's sake, I lived an' sold wit you an' Song fer eight yeahs. I know poifectly well how close da two o' youse were, how much ya cared 'bout 'er. How could ya eveh t'ink I'd believe dat ya would...would...hoit 'er?" She shook her head. "Afta ya ran off from da park, I went afta ya, y'know. Soiched fer ya almost all o' las' night, but I couldn't find ya anywheah. So I slept in some alley neah heah, an' den I got woken up by..."

            "Dat liddle thief?" Flick guessed.

            Secret gaped. "How'd ya know dat!?"

            "Dat's who woke _me up, dat's how! He told me 'bout da fight."_

            "Me too. But _why?"_

            Flick shrugged. "Maybe he found out somehow dat I din't really kill Song, an' he felt guilty fer makin' me say I did. Maybe we'll neveh know why. It don't matta, really." She sighed. _Can I do dis fer da second time t'night? Well, at least I'se already done wit all da cryin'. "What's important is dat I tell ya, right now, what happened da night Song died."_

About ten minutes after Racetrack finished his lengthy explanation, the window creaked open, and two weary-looking newsgirls climbed back into the bunkroom. Secret didn't bother to hide the fact that her face was damp with tears. She retreated quickly to her bunk, and Mush immediately went to sit with her and put his arm around her. She gratefully rested her head on his shoulder. Flick studied the scene thoughtfully. They were funny, those two. Mush had a girlfriend, Victoria, and he was crazy about her. He and Secret really were just friends; but there was something in both of their personalities that caused them to be especially close friends, kindred spirits, maybe. Kind of like Flick and Racetrack.

            No...different from Flick and Racetrack.

            Yet she wasn't given much time to ponder this. Jack Kelly had climbed down from his bunk, and now he slowly approached her, stopping uncertainly a few feet away from her. Flick raised her eyes to his face, not feeling at all up to any of their usual fireworks; but what she saw made the biting words she had prepared freeze on her tongue. Cowboy had tears in his eyes.

            "Flick..." He cleared his throat. Once again, the rest of the bunkroom went silent out of respect for their leader. "Flick...I'se sorry. Real sorry. 'Bout...ev'rytin'. I'se been real unfair ta you an' Secret eveh since ya came, an' Race told us ev'rytin' dat happened, an'...God, I'se jist so sorry."

            Flick took a few seconds to recover from her shock. This was a side to the tough, self-centered Jack Kelly that she had never seen before. _Well, fer heaven's sake. He ain't such a bad guy afta all. Dis shoah is one confusin' woild. _All of a sudden, Flick began to laugh.

            "What?" Jack started to look hurt, even a little angry. "What's so funny?"

            Flick's sharp blue eyes danced. "I'se a goil dat showed up at yer lodgin' house in da middle o' da night, soaked ya in front o' all yer boys, an' forced ya ta let me an' my friend stay. An' now...yer _apologizin' _ta me?"

            That was it. The Manhattan newsies were absolutely desperate for something to break the tension. The entire room dissolved into laughter.

            "I guess," Jack surmised, wiping tears from his eyes, half of which were from laughter and half left over from the story of Song's death, "dat we's even now?"

            "Yep," Flick replied. Her gaze hardened. "But dat don't mean we's gonna get along from now on, ya realize?"

            "'Course not!" Jack appeared shocked. Then he grinned. "We's too much alike fer dat. Can we settle on a truce, dough? An' maybe even mutual respect?"

            Flick returned his grin. "Deal."

            She spat in her palm, Cowboy spat in his, and, to ragged cheers from the surrounding bunks, the two toughest kids ever to sell papes in Manhattan cheerfully shook hands.

            "A'right, a'right, enough o' dis! Youse were all in a big fight t'day (never mentionin' it ta _me, o' course, kids think they can do whateveh they want these days) an' anyone who ain't in bed in ten seconds is gonna hafta sell tomorrow!"_

            Terrified by Kloppman's sudden appearance in the doorway and his cruel threat, thirty boys and two girls all fled to their own bunks. Satisfied, and chuckling affectionatly, Kloppman flicked the light out and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

            After a few minutes of darkness and silence, even breathing filled the bunkroom. Despite still being fully dressed, most of the newsies were out like lights as soon as their heads hit their pillows; all of the stress they had experienced that day and night dissolved into exhaustion, and the effect was overwhelming. In fact, it seemed that only two remained awake, though they were the weariest of the lot.

            "Race?"

            A head of flame-colored tangles and a pair of light blue eyes peered out at him from behind a sheet.

            "Yeah?"

            "T'anks." Flick slipped down her bunk ladder, brushed the sheet aside, and padded softly over to the next bunk. "T'anks," she repeated clearly. It was all she said, but now that he saw her face up close in the darkness, her eyes spoke volumes.

            "Yer welcome," he murmured. "An' t'ank _you."_

            "What fer?"

            "Fer tellin' me 'bout Song." He shrugged. "Fer lettin' me in."

            She smiled. It was a radiant smile; a smile of passion and purity, of strength and courage, of gratitude and joy, and of love.

            _Incandescent: lit from within._

_            Beautiful? No, she ain't. An' she coitainly don't need ta be. 'Cause she's Flick, an' dat makes so-called beauty seem like da most common an' useless t'ing in da woild. I'd trade a thousand beautiful goils fer one friend named Flick O'Grady._

They regarded each other for an indefinite stretch of time before Flick broke the spell by whispering, "Night, Race."

            "Night, Flick," Race murmured, and they returned to their separate beds.

_I always knew dat some people was friends an' some was moah den friends, _Race mused,_ but I neveh realized dere was quite so many shades in between. _It was his last conscious thought before he fell asleep.

"So, Flick," Secret whispered sleepily without opening her eyes, "welcome back. Youse too 'ave fun?"

            Flick hurled a pillow into the bunk below hers out of reflex, and a muffled yelp let her know she'd hit her target. She smiled contentedly and curled up in a ball, pulling the covers in tight around her. It was so good to be home.


	16. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE******

**August 13, 1899, 12:00 Noon **

"Dey best bring us back plenty o' food," Flick commented.

            She, Secret, Race, Mush, and Blink were sitting together on the steps of the lodging house, enjoying the lazy summer afternoon. Because of the fight, Kloppman had permitted all of them to skip selling today. All morning, the girls and the Musketeers had been in the lodging house, enjoying the company of their fellow Manhattan newsies; but the atmosphere had started to become a bit smothering, and the five of them were more than a little relieved when the others voted to go to Tibby's for lunch as usual. Jack had thought they were crazy for opting to stay behind.

            "We's celebratin' our vict'ry oveh Queens," he'd explained incredulously. "Youse all fought hard in dat fight, same as da rest o' us. _Yer_ da one dat _won_ da fight, fer cryin' out loud," he'd reminded Flick.

            "An' my reward is gonna be some peace an' quiet," Flick had told him. Cowboy had thought this hilarious.

            "Peace an' quiet, wit da T'ree Musketeers heah wit'chu? Good luck!"

            Still chuckling, he'd led the rest of the boys out the door and off in the direction of their favorite restaurant.

            "Call, an' raise ya twenty."

            Flick's eyebrows shot up. "Call," she replied, tossing down two dimes. "Feelin' confident, Race?"

            "Don't worry, Flick," Secret advised. She was holding a wooden flute in her hand. Her fingers stroked it absently as she continued, "Dat's Song's deck yer playin' wit. An' if I know Song, she's one unique angel, handin' out blessin's ta favah'd gamblas."

            Flick grinned at the image. "How many cards ya want, Racetrack?"

            "I'll take one."

            She handed him a card, exchanged three of hers, and carefully studied her hand.

            "What's takin' ya so long, Flick?" Race demanded. "Tryin' ta make an eight an' a jack into a pair?"

            "I gave ya a rain check on dat soakin'," Flick reminded him.

            Blink laughed. "Y'know, Race, wit yer mouth an' her fists, we's lookin' forward ta yeahs o' trouble." His eye sparkled mischievously. "An' it won't help if Mush stays as shy an' goil-crazy as 'e is now..."

            Mush responded with an elaborate cough that seemed to be covering up the words "mayor's daughda". Secret snorted with laughter and joined Mush's side.

            "Don't try ta tell us dat you goin' 'round all happy an' excited an' actin' drunk oveh ev'ry liddle t'ing won't get us inta moah den a few scrapes, Blink."

            Flick snickered at this, finally placing her bet of twenty-five cents. "We's jist a regula gang o' maniacs, ain't we? T'ank God fer you, Secret. I dunno what we'd do widdout one sensible poyson ta balance us out."

            "Ya'd all be lost widdout me," Secret agreed.

            "Hang on," Mush protested. "Yer tawkin' 'bout a goil who pushed Spot Conlon in da rivah. If Secret's da closest we's got ta sensible, we's in even moah trouble den I t'ought."

            With indignant protests, Secret shook Song's flute threateningly at Mush. In a moment, however, she realized just what it was she was shaking. She drew it back hastily, and an awkward silence fell over the group. The five of them solemnly regarded the flute. It was Flick who spoke first.

            "She was gonna be so great someday," she commented, tossing a dime onto the growing pile. "A professional musician. Dat was always what she wanted. Youse t'ree shoula hoid 'er play," she added, addressing the boys. "She was amazin'. Da crowds she useta get..."

            "Two pair," Race offered.

            "Two pair, an' higha."

            Secret took over, her voice sad but steady. "Someday, some important composa or sometin' woulda hoid 'er play an' gotten 'er inta some band. Dey'd give 'er all da solos, an' she'd get ev'rytin' she useta tawk about...da concoits, da huge audiences, da stage an' da lights an' ev'ryone clappin' an' cheerin'..." Her voice caught. "An' instead, she had ta die...die a completely pointless death...at eighteen...an' die a _newsie,_ a _street rat..."___

"We can't pretend dese t'ings are fair," Blink interrupted gently. "But t'ink 'bout it, both o' youse. She had two great friends dat she loved, a home an' a fam'ly o' sorts, an' she got ta spend so much o' her time doin' da t'ing she loved most. She din't have a bad life at all."

            _He's right, _Flick realized._ An' it feels a lot betta, ta t'ink o' it dat way. Ta t'ink dat she was happy, even if she neveh did get ta live out all dose dreams. _"Eight cents."

            "Raise ya t'ree."

            "Call. Moment o' truth."

            "Full House," Race volunteered, spreading out his cards.

            "Four of a kind."

            Race groaned at the depressing sight of Flick filling her pockets. He still hadn't beaten her even once...but he wasn't worried. He'd have plenty of chances in the future. Years of chances.

            "Hey!" Flick let out a yelp as she felt her hat fly off her head. She leapt up, pounding down the porch steps after Race, and pursued him down the street, shaking her fist and shouting threats. Laughing, Mush and Blink were instantly on their feet, covering the steps in a couple bounds and taking off after their friends. Spotting the two newcomers to the chase, Racetrack tossed Flick's hat to Mush, who dodged Flick and tossed it back. Blink joined Flick's side, attempting vainly to intercept the missile. Up and down Duane Street the four newsies tore, as one by one, the boys' hats entered the game, and the sides swiftly changed, allies betraying each other and enemies turning friendly with every passing second.

            Only Secret remained on the steps. Watching the outrageous spectacle, she smiled...a smile of contentment, affection, and peace. She'd gone from having two best friends to having four...and while Race, Mush, and Blink could never replace Song, could never fill the hole her death had left, they could certainly do a great deal to help, to heal.

            Thoughtfully, Secret raised Song's flute to eye level. How often Song had tried to teach her two friends to play it. Flick had been a dunce, of course...she had plenty of talents more useful than music. Secret herself had never become the gifted student Song might have hoped for, but she had at least learned the notes and even managed to memorize a few of the simple beginners' tunes. Closing her eyes, Secret raised the flute to her lips and softly began to play.

As she dashed by the lodging house, struggling to juggle two hats at once and hold onto her own at the same time, Flick paused for a moment in her pursuit of Race, owner of the only hat not yet in her possession. A sound was drifting from the lodging-house steps...a very familiar sound. She smiled when she realized its source. Secret was playing Song's flute. The tune she had chosen was one that Song used to play often, even though it was very simple in contrast to the wild, enchanting melodies she could improvise. It had been one of her favorites. She used to sing the words after she played it on her flute. 

            "Hey, dragon, dis ain't freeze tag, y'know!" Race ducked around the motionless girl, easily swooping the brown cap off her head.

            "Yer gonna pay fer dat!" Flick shouted, shaking herself out of her reverie, and charged at Race, yelling for assistance from Blink or Mush.

            Sometimes, she recalled as Mush hurried to her aid, after playing and singing that particular tune, Song would remark dreamily that it was a song of hope. But right now, played by Secret and heard by Flick as they remembered the girl who had meant so much to both of them, Flick decided that it was more accurate to call it a song of healing.

_All things shall perish from_

_Under the sky_

_Music alone shall live_

_Music alone shall live_

_Music alone shall live_

_Never to die.*_

*Excerpt from "Music Alone Shall Live", by Kathryn Morski


End file.
